Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink,
So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear;
'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink,
Which breaks in dying music on the ear,
And placid beauty on the eye;—no tear,
Except of quiet joy, in hers was known;
Though some there were around her justly dear,
Her love for whom in every look was shown,
Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.
One summer morn they miss'd her :-she had peen,
As usual, to the garden arbour brought,
After their morning meal; her placid mien
Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought,
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught;
And she was left amid that peaceful scene
A little space ;-but when she there was sought,
In her secluded oratory green,
Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen!
They found her in her chamber, by the bed
Whence she had risen, and on the bedside chair,
Before her, was an open Bible spread;
Herself upon her knees ;-with tender care
They stole on her devotions, when the air
Of her meek countenance the truth made known:
The child had died! died in the act of prayer!
And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,
To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown.
The Death of the Flowers.
OW happily, how happily the flowers die away!
Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they! Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, Then drop without decrepitude, or pain, into the tomb!
The gay and glorious creatures! they neither “toil nor spin ;"
Yet, lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in ;
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright
Than ever brow of Eastern queen endiadem'd with light.
The young rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never pall;
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all !—
The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed air,
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share.
The happy, careless creatures! of time they take no heed;
Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed;
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ;
Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, "Would God that it were
day!"
And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast; No pain have they in dying-no shrinking from decayOh! could we but return to earth as easily as they!
HARK! Heard ye not that deep, appalling sound?
Tremble! for lo! the vex'd, affrighted ground
Heaves strong in dread convulsion,-streams of fire
Burst from the 'vengeful sky-a voice of ire
Proclaims, "Ye guilty, wait your final doom:
No more the silent refuge of the tomb
Shall screen your crimes, your frailties." Conscience reigns,—
Earth needs no other sceptre ;—what remains
Beyond her fated limits, dare not tell ;-
Eternal Justice! Judgment! Heaven! Hell!
HERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown,
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoofs' tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly; but of ONE,
Oh! who shall speak ?-what words his brow unveil ?
A father following to the grave his son !—
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train,
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low,
Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch'd by a broken lánce. They reach'd the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into high archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile,
Till crested heads, at last, in silence bent
Round the De Couci's antique monument,
When dust to dust was given; and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine;
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth array'd
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
In slumber on his shield.
All still around the dead.
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were
stirr'd
Then all was done,
His name was heard
By some old song, or tale of battle won,
Told round the hearth; but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And, with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side.
Alas, to think of this !—the heart's void place
Fill'd up so soon !—so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass, and leave no trace!
WAKE, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.
She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston-burn
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd, now loud, now hush—
The goldspink answer'd from the bush
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.
'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-
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