The clouds are up, to sweep and tune
That inharmonious harp, the moon;
The north wind blows a harsh bassoon.

An old astrologer might say,
By signs, by portents whirled this way,
That earth was nearing her decay.

All apprehensions stir to-night
With fluttering issues infinite.
Conjunction, phantom, famine, blight;

The woodland shakes its agèd bones
And shrieks; beyond, in deeper tones
The ceremonial cypress groans;

And I, the microcosm of all,
Quake, shuddering, underneath the pall
Of nature's hurrying funeral.

Two Brothers, Jack and Tom by name,
To try their luck, to London came:
Their fortunes were indeed but small;
Some forty shillings! that was all,
Which they as frugally bestow'd,
In their expences on the road;
And many a scanty meal they made,
Nor were to drinking yet betray'd.

 One day the elder thus began,
“Tis necessary that some plan
We fix on, brother, as we go;
How we're to act, and what to do.
London, I've heard my Father say,
Is full of sharpers, who betray
The artless stranger——Let us then

How many ways deceit can find;
T'impole, alas! on human kind.

In antique dress, with length of beard,
Faustus, the conjurer, appear'd;
Austere his look; a taper wand
Most awful dignisy'd his hand:
With globes and telescopes around
His room proclaim'd his skill profound;
Loud was his fame, both far and near,
And all to Faustus would repair.
For wishing nymphs he soon would find
A husband wealthy, handsome, kind;
And for th' ambitious he would fix
A coronet, a coach and fix.
He'd give the avaritious store,

All who attentive read the papers,
Must sure observe what puffs and vapours,
Of this, and that, and that and this,
What is, and what is not amiss;
Of who is worst, and who is best,
Of who's despis'd, and who's carest,
What turns and windings round about,
Of who is in, and who is out:
Yet half these know not what they mean,
Much less who moves the state machine;
What ends they have, what quaint design,
To raise, depress, or undermine:
Why one's degraded to a clod,
Why one's exalted to a God.
Yet those in politics renown'd,

When life comes to an end, two roads before thee are open;
To th' ideal this, that to eternity leads.
While time still permits, be sure thou choose the ideal,
Lest to death thou drift under the finger of fate.

He who with certainty, would find
The depth and scope of woman's mind,
Must judge not by external shew,
From what they say or what they do;
But he who'd construe all their airs,
Must do't as witches say their prayers.

A Miller once, an honest man!
(That's honest as a miller can)
Had a smart wife of goodly parts,
In homely necessary arts;
Could wash and scower, and brew, and bake,
Pies, puddings, tarts, and custards make;
Would smile and curtsey to her neighbours,
And speak so sweetly, " speed your labours. "

Pale thoughts, like drops of trembling dew,
By sunset of my hopes shot through;
Faint longings, colourless at noon,
But turned to beryls in the moon;

Ecstatic dreams; obscure desires,
Lit up by misty opal-fires;
Intensest visions, caught between
The flight of phantoms scarcely seen;

Within this featureless array
Of year by year and day by day,
I fix them, flashing, ere they pass,
And turn them into gems — or glass!

I string them, be they stone or paste,
I string them ere they fall to waste,

Weary of strife renewed from day to day,
Th' inveterate war of parties brought to bay,
With clash of hatreds jarring on his sense,
And poison'd darts of hostile eloquence,
With all the excitement of the brain and heart,
That forms the life of men, who play their part
In mighty dramas, — Danton lay at rest,
His face to Heaven, his hands upon his breast,
And said within himself, — " It must not be —
Surely this grief shall end, and France be free."

He closed his eyes, and saw a vision pass
Clear as a show in a magician's glass;

This is the holy missal Shakespeare wrote,
For friends to ponder when they grieve alone;
Within these collects his great heart would note
Its joy and fear, its ecstasy and moan;
Our strength and weakness each was felt by him;
He yearned and shrank, rejoiced and hoped and bled;
Nor ever will his sacred song be dim,
Though he himself, the Friend of Friends, is dead.
Then, on sad evenings when you think of me,
Or when the morn seems blithe, yet I not near,
Open this book, and read, and I shall be
The metre murmuring at your bended ear;

SET FORTH TO BE SUNG TO THE BASS VIOL IN PRAISE OF M R . B ULLEN HIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF D R . T HOMAS C AMPION

He comes again!
The latest, not the least desired!
Too long, in mouldering tomes retired,
We sought in vain
Those breathing airs
Which, from his instrument,
Like vocal winds of perfume, blent
To soothe man's piercing cares.

Bullen, well done!
Where Campion lies in London-land,