Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay,

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind?

It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darkened dust behind.

Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way?

Or fill at once the realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey?

Eternal, boundless, undecayed,

A thought unseen, but seeing all, All, all in earth, or skies displayed, Shall it survey, shall it recall: Each fainter trace that memory holds,

So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholds,

And all, that was, at once appears. Before creation peopled earth,

Its eyes shall roll through chaos back;

And where the farthest heaven had birth,

The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes,

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quenched or system breaks,

Fixed in its own eternity.

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear,

It lives all passionless and pure:. An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly;

A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die. BYRON.

CELINDA.

WALKING thus towards a pleasant

grove,

Which did, it seemed, in new delight
The pleasures of the time unite
To give a triumph to their love,
They staid at last, and on the
grass

Reposed so as o'er his breast She bowed her gracious head to rest,

Such a weight as no burden was. Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, Unchanged they did never move, As if so great and pure a love No glass but it could represent. "These eyes again thine eyes shall see,

Thy hands again these hands infold, And all chaste pleasures can be told Shall with us everlasting be.

Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, Much less your fairest mind invade; Were not our souls immortal made, Our equal loves can make them such."

LORD EDWARD HERBERT.