domestic tribes.

court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When nature pleased, for life itself was new, And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest:

[hung,

Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! O haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye household deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart,
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near;
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive
thought;

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust;
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through
their dust,

Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!
How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Wh glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song.

What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses
gray,

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here,
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,

Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart.

shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:
And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and
fears,

To learn the colour of my future years!

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!"

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell!

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace
The few fond lines that time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its spring;
Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! instructers of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.

-But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined! Ethereal power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipt in nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,

Drew every subject spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore;
From reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.
What different spheres to human bliss assign'd!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
O mark the sleepless energies of thought!

Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy;

And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the

breeze,

The village common spotted white with sheep,
The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;
All rouse reflection's sadly pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of science, woo'd the gale
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved-such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy forests fringed the evening sky.

So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her
eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portray'd
Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade:
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth.
Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Glad to return, though hope could grant no more,
And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.

And hence the charm historic scenes impart : Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the

gale;

PART II.

Delle cose custode, e dispensiera.—Tasso.

ANALYSIS.

THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distinguished from other animals; but, with respect to man, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colours all the prospects of life: for "we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past." On her agency depends every effusion of the fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, augment or diminish, the materials which she has collected.

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of hav ing acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar.

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm.

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well regulated mind that the memory is most perfect: and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a tale illustrative of her influence in slitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise

of this faculty.

SWEET Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail, To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to thee impart What charms in genius, and refines in art; Thee, in whose hand the keys of science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal lamp.

The friends of reason, and the guides of youth, Whose language breathed the eloquence of truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, by thee to fame consign'd, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws; And fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From thee that bosom spring of rapture flows, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows. When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospects close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear familiar face: And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper bell Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent cell Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song With rapt ear drink th' enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. Yet here, e'en here, with pleasures long re

sign'd,

Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind.
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul,
When the rude scourge assumes its base control;
And o'er futurity's blank page diffuse
The full reflection of her vivid hues.
'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew
The simple transports that with freedom flew ;
Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows,
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
And chant the rude, traditionary verse
With those, the loved companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why should virtue fear the frowns of fate?
Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create!
A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay;
A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest,
The home of happiness, an honest breast.

But most we mark the wonders of her reign,
When sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain.
When sober judgment has his throne resign'd
She smiles away the chaos of the mind;
And, as warm fancy's bright elysium glows,
From her each image springs, each colour flows.
She is the sacred guest! th' immortal friend!
Oft seen o'er sleeping innocence to bend,
In that dead hour of night to silence given,
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven.

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying roun't
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,
From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies;
Though far below the forked lightnings play,
And at his feet the thunder dies away,