The one is both, and both are but the one, Pervasive they of all around the sun, Of one same essence, differing but in name. Lo! when pure Love lights his immortal flame, He, and all Earth and Heaven in Beauty shine; And when true Beauty shows her face divine, Love permeates the universal frame.

Holy of holies! mystery sublime!

Who truly loves is beautiful to see,

And scatters Beauty wheresoe'er he goes

They fill all space; they move the wheels of Time;

And evermore from their dread unity

Through all the firmaments Life's ocean flows.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

THE WINTER'S MORN.

ARTIST unseen! that, dipt in frozen dew,
Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid,
Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade,
Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew!
Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue,

Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made,

And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, That liquid pearl distil: thy scenes renew, Whate'er old bards or later fictions feign,

Of secret grottos underneath the wave,

Where Nereids roof with spar the amber cave; Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, Who, frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen, Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

I.

ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN EOLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide

Of the infuriate gust it did career,

It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr, then it died, Melting in melody, and I descried,

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear

Poured his lone song, to which the surge replied ;
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds
Such as, 't is said, at night are known to swell
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath,
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death!

II.

RETIREMENT.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; And, when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.*

TO NIGHT.

MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus with the host of heaven came,

And, lo creation widened in man's view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

*The well-known and estimable Anglo-Spaniard, who was born of an English family which had emigrated to the Peninsula, and who came back to the country of his ancestors with other Spanish patriots fleeing from the tyranny of the infamous Ferdinand the Second.

Coleridge pronounced this sonnet "the best in the English language." Perhaps if he had said the best in English poetry, the judgment might have appeared less disputable. In language some little imperfections are discernible, which do not detract, however, from its singular merits even in that respect, especially considering