L'ENVOL.

THE tale is done-the dream-the glory---
The smile-hath faded with the story.
Round my hushed chamber rolls, in loud
And troublous tides the stormy crowd;---
Forth from his dim, unstarred abode
The Unknown Spirit sweeps abroad;---
Lone on their clouded eyries cower
The Eagles of Imperial Power ;---
As with some new portentous birth
Travails the mighty womb of Earth ;-
The herds of men walk wistful; Rest
And Home's calm gladness shun the breast;
Where Influence hath not grown Offence,
Broods--mute and hundred-eyed-Suspense ;---

Awed and awaked, we hold our breath,
And nurse a dread like that of death!
This not the hour in which the art
Of Song glides dream-like to the heart.
This not the hour when Satire's sage,
And tranquil scorn arrests the age;
Men pluck no flowers on Danger's brink,
Nor-ripe for action-pause to think.
Ev'n now a shame that in this rhyme
My soul hath dallied with the time,
Steals o'er me:-and methinks I greet,
Not mourn-the silence it will meet.
Yet in a calm, nor boding day,

Thou first wast breathed to life, my lay!
And Beauty smiled upon thy birth,
And Learning's lips foretold thee---worth;
And all that seemed thy course to' oppose
Thy failings and thy father's foes.
But brave thy doom as I have braved,
When prudence failed, but daring saved;
Thou canst but bear what I have borne,
Till Time hath conquered even Scorn;
The foeman's hate, the friend's neglect,
And Hope, the bankrupt's, galleys wreck'd
But still the heart" bears up and steers
Right onward," thro' life's solemn sea;-
Perchance, my lay, the future years
Thy recompense and mine be.

may

As waters glass a distant star,

We woo some light from Heavens afar,
And, imaged in our soul, we dream,
The wave that gains, arrests the beam:
Hushed in a false content we stray,
And glide-perchance to gloom-away!

THE END OF THE SIAMESE TWINS.

MILTON.