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THE MEMORY OF COLLINS.

GREAT bard, to thee belong

The spirits of the mystic song.

Thou hast found, 'bove all thy race,
Sweet Poesy's most hallow'd place :
Where sunbright beings, veil'd from sight,
To thee alone reveal their light.
In fancy's cell, in midnight storm,
Each passion has its proper form.
Glaring amid the gloom of night,
The foaming flood gave thee delight;
But ah! the softness of thy lay
Is mild as summer-close of day,
When o'er Fidele's grassy tomb

Thou scatterest flowers of earliest bloom.

No self-complaint thy mind reveals,
But solely for another feels:

Though it has suffer'd deep distress,
How exquisite its tenderness!

Since pity, peace,

and mercy, seem,

In sooth, to be thy frequent theme; And love, that royal shepherds know, In climes where brighter suns do glow.

Bard of the East! a poet sweet
As thee we ne'er again may greet.
Where does thy gentle sprite abide
All-seeing fancy by its side?

Where sky-born forms are flitting near,
To charm it through "the eternal year."

NOTHING.

"Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men's minds, vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would,' and the like, but it would leave the minds of a number of men, poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves?"-BACON.

WHAT wild ambitious schemes

The ripen'd man engage ?

To love's delusive dreams
Succeed the plans of age.
The smiles of beauty lose

Their sweet attractive power,

And pleasure vainly woos

The statesman to her bower.

Youth, manhood, and old age, have each their vice, First lust, ambition next, then avarice.

Some mount on high like rockets,

That blaze, then die away;

And folly loves to mock its

Votaries for a day.

Or Juans, or Napoleons, 'tis the same—

The slaves of passion are the fools to fame.

"To-morrow and to-morrow"
Have visionary joys!

Men never think that sorrow

Can rob them of their toys;

Or death-they heedless hear the passing bell;
Where be his fond conceits for whom it tolls a knell?

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VERSES

WRITTEN IN STONELEIGH PARK.

THE rudest trunk by Nature's hand that's wrought
May teach us more than ever sage has taught:
Ye patriarchal oaks, that mock the span
Of man's existence (miserable man!)

Ye teach me this, that even in decay

Ye thrive, when the proud mind is worn away.

Ye richly-foliaged woods, that seem but one,
Girding yon uplands with your emerald zone,
Ye tell me there's analogy between

Youth's liveliness, and your most cheerful green.
When the light plays upon your leaves, we glow
With inward joy ourselves; I feel it now.

When sombre shades the brightest hues displace, Steals o'er our hearts their "melancholy grace," 'Tis the bard's golden chain that seems to bind Nature's best energies with those of mind;