"Change, change, wondrous change, Mighty is thy power, and strange ; Summer sleeps beneath the snow, Fading follows autumn’s glow : Time, what has its chronicle, But of thee and thine to tell ?"

"The country is no more left as it was originally created, than Belgrave Square remains its pristine swamp. The forest has been felled, the marsh drained, the enclosures planted, and the field ploughed. All these, begging Mr. Cowper’s pardon, are the works of man’s hands ; and so is the town—the one is not more artificial than the other."

"There’s more for thought in one brief hour In yonder busy street, Than all that ever leaf or flower Taught in their green retreat."

"Had life no mystery, and no hope, Oh ! who could bear to live !"

"Who may deny that on the soul, The coming hours may cast Their shadow, till the future seem As actual as the past."

"From drooping leaves, and bending flowers, Exhaled the midnight dews ! Like love that from its inmost thoughts Its own sweet life renews,"

"Forbid it, England—by thine own great self, By thine own yet unviolated hearths, . . . . Let not thy minister go forth in vain : The fate of Poland now is at thy will; The Autocrat will hear and heed thy voice ; England, my glorious country, speak, and save!"

"Morning, and flowers; green grass, and aged trees— All that can soothe, and calm, and purify, E’en ’mid a busy wilderness of streets."

"One half of our existence is a blank; A mighty empire hath forgetfulness ! History is but a page in the great past, So few amid Time’s records are unsealed."

"Glittering in the morning beam, Crystal runs our little stream, See the flag-flowers bright and blue, Tinge the small waves with their hue; Azure, like a maiden's eye, Surely there the trout will lie: Shadowy hangs the alder bough Hush! we must be silent now."

"Could the past be restored to the present, Methinks ’twere a union sublime : The past—dreaming, high and ideal, The present—keen, selfish and wise, ’Twould be like the glorious old Grecian, And again steal the fire from the skies."

"Oh ! folly of deeming aught earthly can last, Life never knew sorrow whose reign has not past. Oh ! mockery of mockeries, to trust human heart, Whose grief is a shadow, to come and depart:"

"Oh, likeness of humanity, ’Tis thus that life flows on, Till every fabric which we built In early youth is gone. The sacred and the beautiful, The mighty and sublime ; Alas, in vain, the heart would save One single wreck from time."

"Alas ! the contrast between us, and what We can create; That man should be so little in himself, His works so great."

"Oh, gloomy quarry! thou dost hide in thee The tower and shrine. The city vast and grand and wonderful, And strong, is thine."

"Such men may live, fulfil their destiny, Fill a whole land with temples and with tombs, And yet not leave a record of their fame ; Forgotten utterly; and of their faith, No memory, but fallen monuments, Haunted by dim tradition.—"

"It is a mighty thing to teach mankind A new idolatry, to bind the weak In their own fancies, to incite the strong By high imaginations, future hopes, Which fill the craving in all noble hearts For things beyond themselves, beyond their sphere."

"For time is vanquished by discovery, By arts which triumph over common wants, By knowledge, which bequeaths the following age All that its predecessor sought and won."

"He died, and by his death-bed stood The wife, the child, the friend, And saw pale cheek and anxious eye O’er him in fondness bend. Oh, agony !—how could they, King, Call thine a happy end ?"

"A strain of music like the rushing wind, But deep and sweet As when the waters meet, In one mysterious harmony combined. So swells the mighty organ, rich and full, As if it were the soul Which raised the glorious whole, Of that fair building vast and wonderful."

"They met beside the stormy sea, those giant kings of old, And on each awful brow was set, a crown of burning gold. No ray the yet unrisen stars, or the wan moonbeams, gave, But far and bright, the meteor light shone over cloud and wave."

"Summer, shining summer, Art thou bringing now Colours to the red rose, Green leaves to the bough, Music to the singing birds, And honey to the bee ; Summer, shining summer, Oh, welcome unto thee."

"It was a king in Africa, He had an only son ; And none of Europe's crowned kings Could have a dearer one. . . . . . Alas ! it was an evil day, When such a thing could be; When strangers, pale and terrible, Came o'er the distant sea. . . . . . They bound him in a narrow hold, With others of his kind ; For weeks did that accursed ship Sail on before the wind. . . . . . At length a lovely island rose From out the ocean wave, They took him to the market-place, And sold him for a slave."

"City of idol temples, and of shrines, Where folly kneels to falsehood—how the pride Of our humanity is here rebuked !"

"I would that the cloister's quiet were mine; In the silent depths of some holy shrine. I would tell my blessed beads, and would weep away From my inmost soul every stain of clay: My heart's young hopes they have left me now, And I sigh for the days of the veil and the vow."

"He comes from Kilas, earth and sky, Bright before the deity; The sun shines, as he shone when first His glory over ocean burst. The vales put forth a thousand flowers, Mingling the spring and summer hours; The Suras fill with songs the air. The Genii and their lutes are there; By gladness stirred, the mighty sea Flings up its waves rejoicingly; And Music wanders o'er its tide, For Siva comes to meet his bride."

"I'd rather have such stirring life as theirs, Who make their own way, and delight to make, Win wealth and honour by their own bright mind, Whose destiny is in itself—than bear The noblest name that ever belted Earl Left honoured to his son—"

"But this sweet palace was for peace, Built by the water-side, When Zerid sheathed the sword and won The Persian for his bride."

"An ebbing tide of fire, the evil powers In fear and anger here are paramount, Rending the bosom of the fertile earth, And spreading desolation. Black as night, And terrible, as if the grave had sent Its own dark atmosphere to upper air, The heavy vapours rise ; from out the smoke Break the red volumes of the central flame, And lava floods and burning showers descend, Parching the soil to barrenness."

"Aye, build it on these banks," the monarch said, "That when the autumn winds have swept the sea, They may come hither with their falling rains, A voice of mighty weeping o'er her grave."

"Good springs alike from penitence and praise, From aught that can the mortal spirit raise:"

"Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind ; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud ? One a grave, and one a shroud."

"He cannot hear the skylark sing, The music of the wild bee’s wing; The murmur of the plaining bough ; A gentle whisper fairy low; The noise of falling waters near— All these have left his mournful ear."

"Where temples stood, the tamarinds grow ; Broken columns are mouldering below. No steps are heard in the ruined hall. Such is man’s pride, and such is its fall."

"Then many a stately castle stood O’er dungeons dark and deep ; Then many a noble robber wont The king’s highway to keep. Ah ! these were not the times to praise, Thank God, we know more peaceful days."

"That feminine fancy, a will of your own, Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne ;"

"But now thou wilt fill a weary throne, What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own : An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be, Eternal debate is the future for thee. Lord Brougham will make a six-hours’ oration, On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation ; Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race ; O’Connell will tell Ireland’s griefs and her wrongs, In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore’s songs :"

"The falling of fountains—the slight summer rain— The voice of the dove, were less sweet than thy strain; Till stirred with delight, would her exquisite wings Beat time on the west wind, to echo thy strings."

"They come from the mountains, in thousands they come— There breatheth no trumpet, there beateth no drum: They march in such silence as suiteth the dead, Their herald the thunder that echoes their tread. The sun is midway in his morning advance, His beams kindle musket, and sabre, and lance; While beneath each white turban flows down the long hair; For the locks of the Druse are, like northern locks, fair."

"Time measures many hours ; for me, He measured long and slow; I thought the night would never end, The day would never go."

"A fearful thing, the granted wish— The very shape it takes, By some strange mockery of our hope, Another misery makes."

"It is his hand—it is his words— Too well I know the scroll, Whose style, whose order, and whose shape Are treasured in my soul."

"O, Lovely isle ! that, like a child, Art sleeping on the sea, Amid whose hair the wind is wild, And on whose cheek the sun has smiled, As there it loved to be."

"I see the bright trout springing, Where the wave is dark yet clear, And a myriad flies are winging, As if to tempt him near. With the lucid waters blending, The willow shade yet floats, From beneath whose quiet bending I used to launch my boats."

"Hence, ye dark Spirits! bear the dream away; To-morrow but repeateth yesterday; First, toil—then, desolation and decay. Life has one vast stern likeness in its gloom, We toil with hopes that must themselves consume— The wide world round us is one mighty tomb."

"What of yon stately city, where are shrined The warrior’s and the poet’s wreath combined— All the high honours of the human mind! Her walls are bright with colours, whose fine dyes Embody shapes that seem from yonder skies, And in her scrolls the world’s deep wisdom lies. What of her future?—Through the silvery smoke I see the distant vision I invoke. These glorious walls have bowed to time’s dark yoke. I see a plain of desert sand extend Scattered with ruins, where the wild flowers bend, And the green ivy, like a last sad friend."

"In the deep silence of the midnight hours, I call upon ye, oh ye viewless powers! Before whose presence mortal daring cowers."

"Look on the crowded prison-gate— Instructive love and care In early life had saved the fate That waits on many there. Cold, selfish, shunning care and cost, The poor are left unknown ; I say, for every soul thus lost, We answer with our own."

"Pause, ere we blame the savage code That such strange horror keeps; Perhaps within her sad abode The mother sits and weeps, And thinks how oft those eyelids smiled, Whose close she may not see, And says, "Oh, would to God, my child, I might have died for thee !""

"The mother takes her little child— Its face is like her own ; The cradle of her choice is wild— Why is it left alone ? The trampling of the buffalo Is heard among the reeds, And sweeps around the carrion-crow That amid carnage feeds."