In the fragrant depths of the woodland, and died with the dying day.

No spirits in truth! yet it seem’d, as awhile in dreams I stood,

That a music more than earthly had passed through the dark’ning wood.

And it seemed that the Day to the Morrow bequeathed in that solemn strain

The whole world’s hope and labour, its love, and its ancient pain.

[39]

[39]

 IN MEMORIAM: J. T. C. H.

In hours of respite from the strife

That kills the careless joy of life,

How often, friend, have you and I

Lived o’er those golden days gone by,

When eager hand and eager eye

Against the humming salt sea-breeze

Drove our light craft through breaking seas;

Or when beneath enchanted woods

We floated, where the shadow broods

On still black waters, and delayed

A little in the chequer’d shade

To watch, far down the shining stream,

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