Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood
By its winding banks was sweeping;
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.
How lonely and lovely their resting-place seemed!
An enclosure which care could not enter;
And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleamed
On the solitary tomb in its centre!
When at morn or at eve I have wandered near,
And in various lights have viewed it,
With what differing forms, unto friendship dear,
Has the magic of fancy endued it!
Sometimes it has seemed like a lonely sail,

A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale,
Stretched in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it ever given birth to one minute;
For lamented in death, as beloved in life,
Was he who now slumbers within it.

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas
Was a far and a fearless ranger;

Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,
Counted lightly of death or of danger.

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept
All the freshness of gentle feeling;
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept
More of softness and kindness revealing.

And here, when the bustle of youth was past,
He lived, and he loved, and he died too;
Oh! why was affection, which death could outlast,
A more lengthened enjoyment denied to?
But here he slumbers! and many there are
Who love that lone tomb and revere it;
And one far off who, like eve's dewy star,
Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.

BRYAN WALTER PROCTER.

BRYAN WALTER PROCTER, better known by his assumed name of Barry Cornwall, published, in 1815, a small volume of dramatic scenes of a domestic character, in order,' he says, 'to try the effect of a more natural style than that which had for a long time prevailed in our dramatic literature.' The experiment was successful; chiefly on account of the pathetic and tender scenes in Mr Procter's sketches. He has since published Marcian Colonna, The Flood of Thessaly, and other poems: also a tragedy, Mirandola, which was brought out with success at Covent Garden theatre. Mr Procter's later productions have not realised the promise of his early efforts. His professional avocations (for the poet is a barrister) may have withdrawn him from poetry, or at least prevented his studying it with that earnestness and devotion which can alone insure success. Still, Mr Procter is a graceful and accomplished writer. His poetical style seems formed on that of the Elizabethan dramatists, and some of his lyrical pieces are exquisite in sentiment and diction.

Address to the Ocean.

O thou vast Ocean! ever sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep

Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath nought of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go:
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming;
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose; thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves

Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,

I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
Eternity Eternity-and Power.

Marcelia.

It was a dreary place. The shallow brook
That ran throughout the wood, there took a turn
And widened: all its music died away,

And in the place a silent eddy told

That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine,

And spicy cedar) clustered, and at night

Shook from their melancholy branches sounds

And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for through the day

They stood quite motionless, and looked, methought,
Like monumental things, which the sad earth
From its green bosom had cast out in pity,
To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
Disowned their natural green, and took black
And mournful hue; and the rough brier, stretching
His straggling arms across the rivulet,
Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching
With his tenacious leaf straws, withered boughs,
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
Swam with the current, and with these it hid
The poor Marcelia's deathbed. Never may net
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope,
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
Snorts as he ruffles with his shortened breath
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place,
And the white heifer lows, and passes on;
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love
To loiter there: and when the rising moon
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
Red and dilated through the evening mists,
And chequered as the heavy branches sway
To and fro with the wind, I stay to listen,
And fancy to myself that a sad voice,
Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, as 'twere
For some misdeed. The story goes-that some
Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world
Frowned upon) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought
Cast herself in the stream: you may have heard
Of one Marcelia, poor Nolina's daughter, who
Fell ill and came to want? No! Oh, she loved
A wealthy man, who marked her not. He wed,
And then the girl grew sick, and pined away,
And drowned herself for love.

Night.

Now to thy silent presence, Night!

Is this my first song offered: oh! to thee That lookest with thy thousand eyes of lightTo thee, and thy starry nobility

That float with a delicious murmuring

(Though unheard here) about thy forehead blue;
And as they ride along in order due,
Circling the round globe in their wandering,
To thee their ancient queen and mother sing.
Mother of beauty! veiled queen!
Feared and sought, and never seen
Without a heart-imposing feeling,
Whither art thou gently stealing!
In thy smiling presence, I
Kneel in star-struck idolatry,
And turn me to thine eye (the moon),
Fretting that it must change so soon:
Toying with this idle rhyme,
I scorn that bearded villain Time,
Thy old remorseless enemy,
And build my linked verse to thee.
Not dull and cold and dark art thou:
Who that beholds thy clearer brow,
Endiademed with gentlest streaks

Of fleecy-silvered cloud, adorning
Thee, fair as when the young sun 'wakes,
And from his cloudy bondage breaks,

And lights upon the breast of morning,
But must feel thy powers;
Mightier than the storm that lours,
Fairer than the virgin hours

That smile when the young Aurora scatters
Her rose-leaves on the valleys low,

And bids her servant breezes blow.

Not Apollo, when he dies,

In the wild October skies,

Red and stormy; or when he

In his meridian beauty rides

Over the bosom of the waters,

And turns the blue and burning tides
To silver, is a peer for thee,
In thy full regality.

The Sleeping Figure of Modena.
Upon a couch of silk and gold
A pale enchanted lady lies,
And o'er her many a frowning fold
Of crimson shades her closed eyes;
And shadowy creatures round her rise;
And ghosts of women masqued in wo;
And many a phantom pleasure flies;
And lovers slain-ah, long ago!
The lady, pale as now she sleeps,
An age upon that couch hath lain,
Yet in one spot a spirit keeps
His mansion, like a red-rose stain;
And, when lovers' ghosts complain,
Blushes like a new-born flower,
Or as some bright dream of pain
Dawneth through the darkest hour.
Once-but many a thought hath fled,
Since the time whereof I speak-
Once the sleeping lady bred
Beauty in her burning cheek,
And the lovely morn did break
Through the azure of her eyes,

And her heart was warm and meek,
And her hope was in the skies.
But the lady loved at last,
And the passion pained her soul,
And her hope away was cast,
Far beyond her own control;

And the clouded thoughts that roll
Through the midnight of the mind,
O'er her eyes of azure stole,
Till they grew deject and blind.
He to whom her heart was given,
When May music was in tune,
Dared forsake that amorous heaven,
Changed and careless soon!

O, what is all beneath the moon
When his heart will answer not!
What are all the dreams of noon
With our love forgot!

Heedless of the world she went,
Sorrow's daughter, meek and lone,
Till some spirit downwards bent
And struck her to this sleep of stone.
Look! Did old Pygamalion
Sculpture thus, or more prevail,
When he drew the living tone
From the marble pale!

An Invocation to Birds.

Come, all ye feathery people of mid air,
Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool;
And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come! O phenix rare!
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian-lonely nightingale!
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs
Until they waken;-and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouched echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love-come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),
And with it enrich our ears; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

Amelia Wentworth.

SCENE I. A Room. WENTWORTH-AMELIA. Amelia. You have determined, then, on sending Charles

To India?

Wentworth. Yes.

Amel. Poor boy! he looks so sad and pale,
He'll never live there. Tis a cruel lot

At best to leave the land that gave us birth,
And sheltered us for many a pleasant year;
The friends that loved us, and the spots we loved,
For such a distant country. He will die.
Remember 'tis Amelia's prophecy.

Oh! do not be so harsh to the poor youth.
Do not desert your better nature. Nay-
You will not send him, Wentworth?
Went. He will sail

Went. I say your tenderness, your-folly for

This boy becomes you not.

Insult me, sir.

Went. Forgive me: I indeed

Am somewhat of a prude; you'll scorn me for it.
I still think women modest-in the mass.

Amel. Sir-Mr Wentworth-you have used me ill.
Yourself you have used ill. You have forgot
All-what is due to me-what to your wife.
You have forgot-forgot-can I forget
All that I sacrificed for you?-my youth,

My home, my heart-(you know, you knew it then)
In sad obedience to my father's word?
You promised to that father (how you kept
That promise, now remember) you would save
His age from poverty: he had been bred

In splendour, and he could not bow him down,
Like men who never felt the warmth of fortune.
He gave me up, a victim; and I saw

Myself (ah! how I shuddered) borne away
By you, the evil angel of my life,

To a portentous splendour. I became
A pining bride, a wretch-a slave to all
Your host of passions; but I swore (may God
Forgive me!) to love you-you, when I loved
Another, and you knew it: Yes, you knew
My heart was given away, and yet you wed me.
Leave me, sir!

Went. Have you done? Woman, do you think
This mummery is to work me from my purpose—
My settled will? Mistress, I leave you now:
But this remember, that your minion-Oh,
I do not heed your frowning your boy-love
Will visit India shortly, or, it may be,
(You are his guide) a prison here, in England.
Farewell.

Amel. Yet stay-a word more ere we quit.
I do beseech you (though my wrongs are great,
And my proud spirit ill can stoop to this),
You take your malediction from this youth.
He is as innocent-I think he's innocent
Of the least ill toward you. For me, I am
Too innocent to sue; yet let me say,
Since the sad hour I wed you, I have been
As faithful to our cold communion

As though my heart had from the first been yours,
Or you been generous after. Once more, sir,
I would implore you-for your comfort-for
Your honour and my name, to spare this boy.
In the calm tone of one who has not erred
I do require this of you.

Went. You but steel

Amel. He is gone;

And I am here-oh! such a weary wretch.
Oh! father, father, what a heart had you

To cast me on the wide and bitter world
With such a friend as this! I would have toiled
From the pale morning 'till the dusk of night,
And lived as poorly, and smiled cheerfully,
Keeping out sorrow from our cottage home.
And there was one who would have loved you too,
And aided with his all our wreck of fortune.
You would not hear him; and-and did I hear
His passionate petitioning, and see

His scalding tears, and fling myself away
Upon a wintry bosom, that held years
Doubling my own. What matters it?-'tis past.
I will be still myself: who's there?

Too gay for earnest talk. Who has been here?
Amel. No one; I will not tell; I've made a vow,
And will not break it, 'till-until I'm pressed.
Ch. Then let me press you.

Amel. Silly boy, away;

Go gather me more flowers, violets.

Ch. Here let me place them in your hair.
Amel. No, no ;

The violet is for poets: they are yours.

O rare! I like to see you bosom them.

Had they been golden, such as poets earned,
You might have treasured them.

Ch. They are far more

To me for they were yours, Amelia.
Amel. Give me the rose.

Ch. But where shall it be placed?

Amel. Why, in my hand-my hair. Look how it blushes!

To see us both so idle. Give it me.

Where? where do ladies hide their favourite flowers
But in their bosoms, foolish youth. Away-
'Tis I must do it. Pshaw! how sad you look,
And how you tremble.

Ch. Dear Amelia.

To Hindostan.

Ch. I know it.

Amel. For myself,

I shall think of you often, my dear Charles.
Think of me sometimes. When your trumpet sounds,
You'll recollect the coward you knew once,
Over the seas in England?

Ch. Spare my heart.

Amel. I do not think you have a heart: 'tis buried. Ch. Amelia, oh! Amelia, will you never

Know the poor heart that breaks and bursts for you?

Oh! do not take it ill; but now believe

How fond, and true, and faithful

Look, look! above: the canopy of the sky,
Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal dress :
A queen might envy that so regal blue
Which wraps the world o' nights. Alas, alas!
I do remember in my follying days
What wild and wanton wishes once were mine,
Slaves radiant gems-and beauty with no peer,
And friends (a ready host)-but I forget.
I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt,
When I had hope to light me. Have you no song,
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear?
There's one I've heard you sing: They said his
No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit.
"His eye like the mid-day sun was bright'--
Mar. 'Tis so.

You've a good memory. Well, listen to me.
I must not trip, I see.

Amel. I hearken. Now.

Song.

His eye like the mid-day sun was bright,
Hers had a proud but a milder light,
Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon:
Alas! and must it fade as soon?

His voice was like the breath of war,
But hers was fainter-softer far;
And yet, when he of his long love sighed,
She laughed in scorn:-he fled and died.

Mar. There is another verse, of a different air,
But indistinct-like the low moaning
Of summer winds in the evening: thus it runs-

They said he died upon the wave,

And his bed was the wild and bounding billow:
Her bed shall be a dry earth grave:

Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow.
Amel. How slowly and how silently doth time
Float on his starry journey. Still he goes,
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away.
He rises with the golden morning, calmly,
And with the moon at night. Methinks I see
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings,
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men,
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath.
Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on:
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing-
Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world
As though I were alive to welcome them.
There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles!

Ch. I am here.

Did you not call?

[CHARLES enters.]

Amel. You come in time. My thoughts

Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother (now
I take that title), in her dying hour

Has privilege to speak unto your youth.
There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm.
My husband has been harsh unto me-yet
He is my husband; and you'll think of this
If any sterner feeling move your heart?
Seek no revenge for me. You will not?-Nay,
Is it so hard to grant my last request?
He is my husband: he was father, too,
Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once.
Do you remember how his eyelids closed
When the first summer rose was opening?
"Tis now two years ago-more, more: and I-
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy!
He was my only child. How fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him-
'Twas like a marble slumber; and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,

Become a mother's tender love-no more.
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world
Now almost thirty seasons: you have been
A child to me for one-third of that time.
I took you to my bosom, when a boy,
Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and
vanish.

You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd
Will feed upon it, if-but you must make
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep
Its young and beautiful feelings.

Ch. I will do

All that you wish-all; but you cannot die
And leave me?

Amel. You shall see how calmly Death
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale,
On my now smiling lip: these eyes men swore
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky,
And yet they must grow dim: an hour-
Ch. Oh! no.

No, no: oh! say not so. I cannot bear
To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart?
caution it against a change,
Calmly let us talk.

Amel. No: I would That soon must happen. When I am dead

Ch. Alas, alas!

Amel. This is

Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Oh! mother, mother. I-I cannot weep. Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes, So I might not gaze on her. And has death Indeed, indeed struck her-so beautiful? So wronged, and never erring; so beloved By one-who now has nothing left to love. Oh! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest, For lo! the brightest of thy host is goneDeparted-and the earth is dark below. And now-I'll wander far and far away, Like one that hath no country. I shall find A sullen pleasure in that life, and when I say 'I have no friend in all the world,' My heart will swell with pride, and make a show Unto itself of happiness; and in truth There is, in that same solitude, a taste Of pleasure which the social never know. From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger, And, as the body gains a braver look,