In sunny Devon moist with rills,-
A nunnery of cloistered hills,-
The elements presiding.

By Loddon's stream the flowers are fair
That meet one gifted lady's care

With prodigal rewarding;
But Beauty is too used to run

To Mitford's bower-to want the sun
To light her through the garden!

And here, all summers are comprised—
The nightly frosts shrink exorcised
Before the priestly moonshine!
And every wind with stoled feet,
In wandering down the alleys sweet,
Steps lightly on the sunshine;

And (having promised Harpocrate
Among the nodding roses, that

No harm shall touch his daughters)

Gives quite away the noisy sound,
He dares not use upon such ground,
To ever-trickling waters.

Yet, sun and wind! what can ye do,
But make the leaves more brightly show
In posies newly gathered?—

I look away from all your best;

To one poor flower unlike the rest,—

A little flower half-withered.

I do not think it ever was

A pretty flower,-to make the grass
Look greener where it reddened :

And now it seems ashamed to be
Alone in all this company,

Of aspect shrunk and saddened!

A chamber-window was the spot
It grew in, from a garden-pot,
Among the city shadows:

If any, tending it, might seem
To smile, 't was only in a dream
Of nature in the meadows.

How coldly, on its head, did fall
The sunshine, from the city wall,
In pale refraction driven !
How sadly plashed upon its leaves
The raindrops, losing in the eaves

The first sweet news of Heaven!

And those who planted, gathered it
In gamesome or in loving fit,

And sent it as a token
Of what their city pleasures be,-
For one, in Devon by the sea,
And garden-blooms, to look on.

But SHE, for whom the jest was meant,
With a grave passion innocent

Receiving what was given,—
Oh! if her face she turned then,
Let none say 't was to gaze again
Upon the flowers of Devon!

Because, whatever virtue dwells
In genial skies-warm oracles

For gardens brightly springing,

The flower which grew beneath your eyes,
Ah, sweetest friends, to mine supplies
A beauty worthier singing!

"THE PILGRIM'S REST."

PILGRIM, why thy course prolong?
Here are birds of ceaseless song,
Here are flowers of fadeless bloom,
Here are woods of deepest gloom,
Cooling waters for thy feet;
Pilgrim, rest; repose is sweet.

Tempt me not with thoughts of rest:
Woods in richest verdure dressed,
Scented flowers and murmuring streams,
Lull the soul to fruitless dreams.

I would seek some holy fane,
Pure and free from earthly stain.

Based upon the eternal rock,
Braving time and tempest's shock;
Seest thou not yon temple gray?
There thy weary steps may stay,
There thy lowly knees may bend,
There thy fervent tears descend.

Has that temple stood the storm?
Could no touch of time deform?
Was the altar there so pure,
That its worship must endure?
Whence those noble ruins then?
Why the wondering gaze of men?

No. The Sibyl's power is gone;
Hushed is each mysterious tone;
Closed the eye, whose upward gaze
Read the length of human days;
Blindly darkened to her own,
Shrine and goddess both are gone.

Onward, then, my feet must roam;
Not for me the marble dome,
Not the sculptured column high,
Pointing to yon azure sky.
Let the Heathen worship there,
Not for me that place of prayer.

Pilgrim, enter. Awe profound
Waits thee on this hallowed ground.
Here no mouldering columns fall,
Here no ruin marks the wall;
Marble pure, and gilding gay,
Woo thy sight, and win thy stay.

Here the priest, in sacred stole,
Welcomes every weary soul.

Here what suppliant knees are bending!
Here what holy incense lending

Perfume to the ambient air!

Ecstasy to praise and prayer!

Pilgrim, pause; and view this pile:

Leave not yet the vaulted aisle :
See what sculptured forms are here!
See what gorgeous groups appear!
Tints that glow, and shapes that live,
All that art or power can give!

Music floats upon the air,

Clouds of perfume round me roll;
Thoughts of rapture fill my soul.
Tempt me not, I must away,
Here I may not-dare not stay.

Here amazed-entranced I stand,
Human power on every hand
Charms my senses-meets my gaze,
Wraps me in a wildering maze.
But the place of prayer for me,
Purer still than this must be.

From the light of southern skies,
Where the stately columns rise—
Wanderer from the valleys green,
Wherefore seek this wintry scene?
Here no stranger steps may stay,
Turn thee, pilgrim-haste away.

Here, what horrors meet thy sight!
Mountain-wastes, of trackless height;
Where the eternal snows are sleeping,
Where the wolf his watch is keeping,
While in sunless depths below,
See the abodes of want and woe!