XLVI.

NOT IN VAIN.

LET me not deem that I was made in vain,
Or that my being was an accident

Which Fate, in working its sublime intent, Not wished to be, to hinder would not deign. Each drop uncounted in a storm of rain

Hath its own mission, and is duly sent
To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent
'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main.
The very shadow of an insect's wing,

For which the violet cared not while it stayed Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing,

Proved that the sun was shining by its shade. Then can a drop of the eternal spring,

Shadow of living lights, in vain be made!

XLVII.

NOVEMBER.

THE mellow year is hastening to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast-
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,

Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows :
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine,
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks defino, And the gaunt woods, in ragged scant array,

Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine,

XLVIII.

TO NATURE.

Ir may indeed be phantasy when I
Essay to draw from all created things

Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.

So let it be; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, to me it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.

So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God! and Thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

XLIX.

PHANTASMION'S QUEST OF IARINE.

YON changeful cloud will soon thy aspect wear, So bright it grows:-and now, by light winds shaken,

O ever seen yet ne'er to be o'ertaken!—

Those waving branches seem thy billowy hair.

The cypress glades recall thy pensive air;
Slow rills that wind like snakes amid the grass,
Thine eye's mild sparkle fling me as they pass,
Yet murmuring cry, This fruitless Quest forbear!

Nay e'en amid the cataract's loud storm,

Where foamy torrents from the crags are

leaping,

Methinks I catch swift glimpses of thy form,

Thy robe's light folds in airy tumult sweeping; Then silent are the falls: 'mid colours warm

Gleams the bright maze beneath their splendour sweeping.

D

L.

GUNS OF PEACE.

Sunday Night, March 30th 1856.

GHOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain,
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far
In the long patience of inglorious war,
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence and pain,--
All ye whose loss makes up our vigorous gain—
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue,
Do ye look down the trembling stars among,
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain ?
Or, wiser grown since reaching those new spheres,
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sow'd as seed
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed!?
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears-
"Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurl'd,
And make all wars to cease throughout the world."