The better days of life were ours,

The worst can be but mine;

The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
Shall never more be thine :

The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it plucked to-day,-
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade :

The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade.

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd :

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept-if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head,

And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain
(Though thou hast left me free)
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee:
The all of thine that can not die
Through dark and dread eternity
Returns again to me;

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

SONG OF SAUL.

BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE.

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,

Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path !
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow!
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet !

Farewell to others! but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,-
Or kingly the death which awaits us to-day.

THE PATRIOT.

Thy days are done, thy fame begun;

Thy country's strains record

The triumphs of her chosen son,

The slaughters of his sword:

The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored.

Though thou art fallen, while we are free Thou shalt not taste of death:

The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath;

Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit in our breath.

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word;

Thy fall the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd:

To weep would do thy glory wrong,—
Thou shalt not be deplored!

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,-
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

BYRON'S LAST VERSE.

"On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year." 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I can not be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone :
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle :
No torch is kindled at its blaze,-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain

And

power of love, I can not share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,— Where glory decks the hero's bier

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,—
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake

-not Greece! she is awake :

Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood! Unto thee

Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here. Up, to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out (less often sought than found)
A soldier's grave, for thee the best!
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
1792-1822.

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest;

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest;

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight :