When every childish fashion
Has vanished from my rhyme,
Will I, grey gone in passion,
Leave to an after-time

Hymning and Harmony

Of thee and of thy works, and of thy life;
But vain is now the burning and the strife;
Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife
With old Philosophy,

And mad with glimpses of futurity.

For many years my offerings must be hush'd;
When I do speak, I'll think upon this hour,
Because I feel my forehead hot and flushed,
Even at the simplest vassal of thy power,
A lock of thy bright hair,-

Sudden it came,

And I was startled when I caught thy name
Coupled so unaware;

Yet at the moment temperate was my blood-
I thought I had beheld it from the flood!

TO THE NILE.

"The Wednesday before last, Shelley, Hunt, and I, wrote each a sonnet on the river Nile: some day you shall read them all." February, 1818.

ON of the old Moon-mountains African!
Stream of the Pyramid and Crocodile!
We call thee fruitful, and that very
while

A desert fills our seeing's inward span:
Nurse of swart nations since the world began,
Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile
Those men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,
Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan ?

O may dark fancies err! They surely do;
'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew
Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too,
And to the sea as happily dost haste.

THE NILE.

J. K.

T flows through old hush'd Egypt ana its sands,

Like some grave mighty thought
threading a dream;

And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,—
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roam'd through the young earth, the glory

extreme

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
"Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.

TO THE NILE.'

L. H.

ONTH after month the gather'd rains descend,

Drenching yon secret Ethiopian dells, And from the Desert's ice-girt pinnacles,

Up to the discovery of this sonnet among Shelley's MSS,, in the possession of Mr. Townshend Major, the sonnet entitled “Özymandias" was believed to be that written in competition with Keats

Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend.
Girt there with blasts and meteors, Tempest

dwells

By Nile's aërial urn, with rapid spells

Urging its waters to their mighty end.

O'er Egypt's land of memory floods are level, And they are thine, O Nile! and well thou knowest

That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil,

And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou flowest.

Beware, O man! for knowledge must to thee,
Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.

P. B. S.

TEIGNMOUTH

"In hopes of cheering you through a minute or two, I was determined, will he nill he, to send you some lines, so you will excuse the unconnected subject and careless verse. You know, I am sure, Claude's Enchanted Castle,' and I wish you may be pleased with my remembrance of it." March, 1818.

EAR Reynolds! as last night I lay in
Is your bed,

There came before my eyes that
Hata wonted thread

Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances,
That every other minute vex and please :
Things all disjointed come from north and south,-
Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth,
Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon
And Alexander with his nightcap on;
Old Socrates a-tying his cravat,

And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat
And Junius Brutus, pretty well, so so,

Making the best of's way towards Soho.

Few are there who escape these visitings,Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes; But flowers bursting out with lusty pride, And young Eolian harps personified; Some Titian colours toucn'd into real life,The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows, The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows : A white sail shows above the green-head cliff, Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff; The mariners join hymn with those on land.

You know the "Enchanted Castle,"-it doth stand

Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake,
Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake
From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword.
O Phoebus! that I had thy sacred word
To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise,
Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies!

You know it well enough, where it doth seem A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream; You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills, All which elsewhere are but half animate; There do they look alive to love and hate, To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound Above some giant, pulsing underground.

Part of the Building was a chosen See,
Built by a banished Santon of Chaldee;
The other part, two thousand years from him,
Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim;

Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun; And many other juts of aged stone

Founded with many a mason-devil's groan.

The doors all look as if they oped themselves, The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, And from them comes a silver flash of light, As from the westward of a Summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies.

See! what is coming from the distance dim!
A golden Galley all in silken trim!
Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles
Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles;
Towards the shade, under the Castle wall,
It comes in silence,- -now 'tis hidden all.
The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate
An echo of sweet music doth create

A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring
His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring-
He tells of the sweet music, and the spot,
To all his friends, and they believe him not.

O, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take From something of material sublime,

Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time
In the dark void of night. For in the world
We jostle, but my flag is not unfurl'd
On the Admiral-staff,—and to philosophise
I dare not yet! Oh, never will the prize
High reason, and the love of good and il.,
Be my award! Things cannot to the will
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought;
Or is it that imagination brought