EARTH'S MISSIONER.

(A Fragment.)

IN awe he stood!-behind him lay the waste
Of desolated nature he had trod-

Not of the earth but spirit! Then the god-
The god burned in him; and the big tears fast
Started-prophetic feeling; and the thrill

Of unknown impulse shook him, like the hill
Whose wombed flame bursts through its clouds of snow-
Apollo, thus, breathed on his pallid brow.

He knew it then! the eternal language broke
In strange and murmuring wonder from his breast,
Albeit in grief; and things once most caress'd
Were idle then. His mountain Genius spoke !—
"Sigh not though thou hast walk'd this desert ground
Alone and burn'd in soul, with festering wound
That heals not, and yet cannot kill: for this
Has school'd each generous mind to woe or bliss.
"I watch'd thee in thine infant growth of heart,
Mysterious life perplexing thy young frame
With thousand sympathies thou could'st not name :
Unknowing why, oft would'st thou weep and start,
But smiles would seldom light thine earnest eyes,
As conscious of thy coming tears and sighs:
For thou wert gentle born, and to the last
Thy mother's voice will speak-till all be past.
"The spirit bounded on its mortal way,
As the limbs grew; a wider, deeper strife
Then smote the chords of ever-jarring life!
Desparing, hoping, at her feet you lay-

The heavens, the earth, shone, or were hid in night,
As she smil'd on, or veiled her eyes of light.
Hence other woes-soon meteor lights of fame
Led thee to hope, but left thee not a name.

"So, with the eternal woods that murmuring wave,
And with the bounding waters thou didst commune,
Filling thy soul with fancies never done,

Or lost in wonder over nature's grave,

From the strange passing show, stealing some theme
To ponder in a dread and hallowed dream,
Till the wild storm and thunder from on high
Seem'd to thy spirit but a lullaby.

"And oft thou wept'st and bow'dst thy spirit down
Before this mystery of humanity-

Of heaven revealed, and prophet's imagery,
Shewing the skirts of coming times foreknown.

Repine not on thy way, but let one thought.
Burn in thy frame-the Heaven-chastised are taught
Strange joy in grief-nor praise nor censure near,
Be stained thy page of life but with a tear!"

R.

ON RECEIVING AN AUTOGRAPH POEM BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE FROM HIS SISTER.

THE years which o'er the relics pass
Of one for ever fled,

But deeper in reflection's glass

The expressive lights they shed;
Of dear departed days they tell,
Still whisper they a fond farewell
When all beside is dead;

Ev'n from the dead they rise, they speak
What to pourtray, all words are weak.
But Fancy images the tale,

And chronicles in light

Those features, which destruction's veil
Has long removed from sight;
And thus, where Henry's hand has been,
Some spirit tears away the screen,

Which wraps thy form in night;
And Thou, in thought, awak'st to gaze
Upon the rites a stranger pays.

As once I bent above thy tomb,
And thought upon the brow
Which sickness wrapt in early gloom,
So bend I to thee now:
Beside the dim communion-rail
I knelt, amid the twilight pale,
In secret to avow-

By fond Affection's silent tear,
And sigh, that thou indeed wert dear.

If then my footstep echoed not
Upon the sullen ground,

If then the arches of the spot

Gave back no sorrowing sound,
It was not coldness-was not wrong-
To jealous grief there does belong
A stillness so profound,

No uttered tones it will employ,
They are too much allied to Joy.

I could

I could but with a holy awe
Thy stone in sorrow steep,
And view, without a wish to draw,
The curtains of thy sleep:

I would not wish thee to return
To new existence from thy urn,

Though we should cease to weep:
So gloriously thy being ran,
The angel triumph'd o'er the man.
It seemed whilst o'er thy life I bent,
That then I knew thee well,
And since so newly shrined a Saint,
For love I sought thy cell;
That whilst I saw thee rise to bliss,
The mantle of thy pensiveness
Upon my spirit fell;-

Oh then, young lover of the lyre!
Oh, for thy steeds and car of fire!
But though far vanished into heaven,
Enough remains behind

Of thy sweet influences, to leven
Our gloominess of mind.

The vigils which thy heart has kept,
The holy harp which thou hast swept
Till music filled the wind,
And thousand happy souls adored
The stir of each Elysian chord,-
These to the many;-and to me
One melancholy leaf,
Traced by thy viewless hand, shall be
My comforter in grief.

If thou, who mov'st in glory now,
To Marah's bitter wave could'st bow,
My woes may be as brief,

And boughs rent by thy sister's arm
May turn the wormwood into balm !

J. H. W.

THE END.

Printed by C. E. Knight, St. Catherine's, London.

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