584 Meditations on Mountains^ 



And again : 



All the infections that the sun sucks up 



From bogs, fens, fiats, on Prosper fall, and make him 



By inch-meal a disease ! 



And did Shakspeare, or any one else, ever think of fetching any thing 

 pestilent from a mountain lake ? Never. But you ? re now near the hos- 

 pitable hut, and more disposed for food and rest than for observation and 

 reflection. Well, go ; taste that cup of unsophisticated kindness, into 

 which the offerer does not squeeze one drop of selfishness ; and, for one 

 night at least, feel that you are happy, and calm enough to know it. We 

 shall meet again. VIATOR. 



THE DREAMER. 



There is no such tiling as forgetting possible to the mind ; a thousand accidents may, and will, 

 interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind ; but alike, 

 whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever. English Opium-eater. 



REST from thy griefs ! thou art sleeping now ; 



The moonlight's peace is upon thy brow : 



All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 



Lies, 'midst the hush of thy heart, at rest ; 



Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 



When Eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell. 



Rest ! the sad memories that through the day 



With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay; 



The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 



That bowed thee, as winds bow the willow's head ; 



The yearnings for voices and faces gone ; 



All are forgotten ! Sleep on sleep on ! 



Are they forgotten ? It is not so ! 

 Slumber divides not our hearts from their woe ; 

 E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 

 Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 

 Tremblest thou, Dreamer ? O Love and Grief ! 

 Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! 



On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 



As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 



On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye 



There's a large tear gathering heavily ; 



A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd ! 



Sorrowful Dreamer ! this is not rest. 



It is Thought, at work amidst busied hours ; 

 It is Love, keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. 

 Oh ! we bear within us mysterious things, 

 Of memory and anguish unfathomed springs, 

 And passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill 

 With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still ! 



Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 

 Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 

 Well might we look on our souls in fear ; 

 They find no fount of oblivion here ! 

 They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath 

 How know we, if under the wings of Death ? 



F. H. 



