Though of more pomp and wealth the Briton boast, Who holds four worlds in tribute to his pride,-- Although from farthest India's glowing coast Come gems of gold to burden Thames' dull tide, And _bring_ each luxury that Heaven denied,-- Not in the torrent, but the still, calm brook, Delights Apollo at himself to look. More nobly lodged than we in northern halls, At Angelo's gate the Roman beggar dwells; Girt by the Eternal City's honored walls, Each column some soul-stiring story tells; While on the earth a second heaven dwells, Where Michael's spirit to St. Peter calls; Yet all this splendor only decks a tomb; For us fresh flowers from every green hour bloom And while we live obscure, may others' names Through Rumor's trump be given to the wind; New forms of ancient glories, ancient shames, For nothing new the searching sun can find, As pass the motley groups of human kind; All other living things grow old and die-- Fancy alone has immortality. STANZAS. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN. I. Come, breath of dawn! and o'er my temples play; Rouse to the draught of life the wearied sense; Fly, sleep! with thy sad phantoms, far away; Let the glad light scare those pale troublous shadows hence! II. I rise, and leaning from my casement high, Feel from the morning twilight a delight; Once more youth's portion, hope, lights up my eye, And for a moment I forget the sorrows of the night. III. O glorious morn! how great is yet thy power! Yet how unlike to that which once I knew, When, plumed with glittering thoughts, my soul would soar, And pleasures visited my heart like daily dew! IV. Gone is life's primal freshness all too soon; For me the dream is vanished ere my time; I feel the heat and weariness of noon, And long in night's cool shadows to recline. FLAXMAN. We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone-- A higher charm than modern culture won, With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore. A many-colored light flows from our sun; Art, 'neath its beams, a motley thread has spun; The prison modifies the perfect day; But thou hast known such mediums to shun, And cast once more on life a pure white ray. Absorbed in the creations of thy mind, Forgetting daily self, my truest self I find. THOUGHTS ON SUNDAY MORNING, WHEN PREVENTED BY A SNOW STORM FROM GOING TO CHURCH.