As roves from gaudier tints the aching eye
Woos the pure green, and dwells delighted there,
So loves the soul the world has worn, to fly
Languid and weak the glitter and the glare,
And on the fresh tints of its verdant days
To turn and drink deep quiet in the gaze.
The visions of the Minstrel, which in vain
Had woo'd his noon-day--brightly roll'd again
Like sun-lit waters o'er his mind, and gave
The waste the welcome freshness of the wave.

VI.

There, as a river in its hidden course,
Mighty and secret thro' his spirit flow'd

The inspirations none but God might see,
The cave their channel, and the rock their source,
But rolling on to Immortality.---
Old--blind-deserted-lone amid the crowd,-
No hopes--save those of heaven---upon the earth,--
Amid the wrecks of Freedom only free,
Cold-rapt-estrang'd amid that courtly mirth
Where Pleasure lent the veil to Tyranny,--
He stood-like some grey Column far away
From life—and crumbling in its proud decay-
There wildest flowerets bloom--and nightly there
Wails with mysterious voice the wandering Air--
Amid the stars—the dews--the eternal hills--
And the far voices of the dashing rills-

Amid the haunted darkness of the night,

When earth and heaven are mingled in their might,
It stands begirt with each-and looks on high
Thro' Shade and Cloud to commune with the Sky.---

Beneath a church's chancel there were laid

A great Man's bones,--and when the crowd was gone,
An aged woman, in black robes arrayed,
Lingered and wept beside the holy stone.

None knew her name, or land; her voice was sweet,
With the strange music of a foreign tongue :---
Thrice on that spot her bending form they meet,
Thrice on that stone are freshest garlands hung.
On the fourth day she came not; and the wreath,
Look'd dim and withered from its odorous breath;
And if I err not wholly, on that day,

A soul that loved till death, had passed away!

THE END OF MILTON.

LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

Amid the haunted darkness of the night,

When earth and heaven are mingled in their might,
It stands begirt with each-and looks on high
Thro' Shade and Cloud to commune with the Sky.---

Beneath a church's chancel there were laid

A

great

Man's bones,--and when the crowd was gone,

An aged woman, in black robes arrayed,

Lingered and wept beside the holy stone.

None knew her name, or land; her voice was sweet,
With the strange music of a foreign tongue :---
Thrice on that spot her bending form they meet,
Thrice on that stone are freshest garlands hung.
On the fourth day she came not; and the wreath,
Look'd dim and withered from its odorous breath;
And if I err not wholly, on that day,

A soul that loved till death, had passed away!

THE END OF MILTON.

LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

TRAND

One