Such days of gladdest thought as here, whilom,

We spent amid the change of earthly weather.

No white young day like hope smiles in yon east,

Or, westering, cleaves wild-omened scarlet glooms;

No frosty breezes wreathe your woods in mist;

No breaker o'er Heaven's glassy ocean booms.

No scents of delvéd dewy soil arise;

No storm-blue pall in state hangs hill or lea;

No nightly seas swirl in grey agonies;

Nor old Earth's sweet decays dye herb or tree.

Do wan gold tints shot on the midnight air

Herald the moon that loiters far away?

Or moony sea-gleams peep and beckon there

From sapphire dark or mystic silver grey?

No, not the olden pleasure shall be there

We knew, before the grass sprang o'er your breast;

Yet that is yours which here hearts cannot share—

Heaven's summer peace eterne and noonday rest.

VI.

Northumbria.—A Dirge.

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