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JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

137

Yet not the lightest tone was heard 0, think! the darlings of thy love,

From angel voice or angel hand; Divested of this carthly clod, And not one pluméd pinion stirred Amid unnumbered saints, above, Among the pure and blissful band. Bask in the bosom of their God.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they tend; For there was silence in the sky,

For thee the Lord of life implore; A joy not angel tongues could tell,

And oft from sainted bliss descend As from its mystic fount on high

Thy wounded quiet to restore. The peace of God in stillness fell.

Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear;

Their part and thine inverted see. 0, what is silence here below?

Thou wert their guardian angel here, The fruit of a concealed despair;

They guardian angels now to thee. The pause of pain, the dream of woe;

It is the rest of rapture there. And to the wayworn pilgriın here,

More kindred seems that perfect peace, Than the full chants of joy to hear WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Roll on, and never, never cease.

(1775 - 1864)
From earthly agonies set free,
Tired with tlie path too slowly trod,

LAMENT.
May such a silence welcome me
Into the palace of my God.

I Loved him not; and yet, now heisgone,

I feel I am alone.
I checked him while he spoke; yet,

could he speak,
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

Alas! I would not check. (U. S. A., 1767-1848.)

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought
TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. To vex myself and him: I now would give

My love, could he but live
SURE, to the mansions of the blest

Who lately lived for me, and, when he When infant innocence ascends,

found Some angel, brighter than the rest,

'Twas vain, in holy ground
The spotless spirit's flight attends. He hid his face amid the shades of death!
On wings of ecstasy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll,

I waste for him my breath
Till scme fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.

Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,

And this lorn bosom burns
That inextinguishable beam,
With dust united at our birth,

With stilling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for The more it lingers upon earth.

vears But when the Lord of mortal breath

Wept he as bitter tears ! Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Merciful God!" such was his latest Which speeds an infant to the tomb,

prayer, No passion fierce, nor low desire,

“These may she never share!" Hasynenched the ralliance of the flame; Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Back to its God the living fire

Than daisies in the mould, Reverts, unclouded as it came. Where children spell, atnwart thechurchFond mourner! be that solace thine!

yard gate, Let Hope her healing charm impart,

His name and life's brief date. And soothe, with melodies divine, Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, The anguish of a mother's heart.

And, 0, pray, too, for me!

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The sun's eye had a sickly glare, This spirit shall return to Him
The earth with age was wan;

Who gave its heavenly spark ;
The skeletons of nations were

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
Around that lonely man!

When thou thyself art dark !
Some had expired in fight, — the brands No! it shall live again, and shine
Still rusted in their bouy hands,

In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
In plague and famine some!

By him recalled to breath,
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Who captive led captivity,
And ships were drifting with the dead Who robbed the grave of victory,
To shores where all was dumb!

And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

On Nature's awful waste
With dauntless words and high,

To drink this last and bitter cup
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,

Of grief that man shall taste,
As if a storm passed by,

Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Saying. We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

On earth's sepulchral clod, "T is Mercy bids thee go; For thon ten thousand thousand years

The darkening wuiverse defy

To quench his immortality,
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

Or shake his trust in God !
That shall no longer flow.

GLENARA.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his priile, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth

The vassals of his will?
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrowned king of day;

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in

the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weep

ing and wail ? "T is the chief of Glenara laments for his

dear; And her sire, and the people, are called

to her bier.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again :

Glenara came first with the mourners and

shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned

not aloud :

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Their plaids all their bosoms were folded LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

around; They marched all in silence, -- they looked A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, on the ground.

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound In silence they marched over mountain To row us o'er the ferry.'

and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, lonely and hoar:

This dark and stormy water?” “Now here let us place the gray stone "O, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, of her cairn :

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. Why speak ye no word?” – said Glenara the stern.

“ And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of For should he find us in the glen, my spouse,

My blood would stain the heather. Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride; So spake the rude chieftain :--- no answer Should they our steps discover, is made,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride But each mantle unfolding, a dagger dis When they have slain her lover?" played.

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight: “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her

"I'll go, my chief, - I'm ready; shroud,”

It is not for your silver bright, Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all

But for your winsomne lully; wrathful and loud ; “And empty that shroud and that coffin

“And by my word! the bonny bird did seen:

In danger shall not tarry: Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my So, though the waves are raging white, dream!"

I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, By this the storm grew loud apace,

I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke

Grew dark as they were speaking. louder in scorn, "T was the youth who had loved the fair But still, as wilder blew the wind, Ellen of Lorn:

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men, -I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her Their trampling sounded nearer.

grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous “o, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, chief:

“Though tempests round us gather; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father." Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

The boat has left a stormy land, In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the A stormy sea before her, ground,

When, 0, too strong for human hand, And the desert revealed where his lady The tempest gathered o'er her!

was found : From a rack of the ocean that beauty is And still they rowed amidst the roar borne,

Of waters fast prevailing : Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; Lorn!

His wrath was changed to wailing.

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seem;

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For, sore dismayed, through storm and But to that fane, most catholic and shade,

solemn, His child he did discover;

Which God hath planned ;
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

To that cathedral, boundless as our won

der, Come back! come back!” he cried in

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and grief,

moon supply; “Across this stormy water;

Its choir the winds and waves, its organ And I 'll forgive your Highland chief,

thunder, My daughter! < ( my daughter!"

Its dome the sky.

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'T was vain ; – the loud waves lashed the There, as in solitude and shade I wander shore,

Through the green aisles, or stretched Return or aid preventing;

upon the sod, The waters wild went o'er his child, Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder And he was left lamenting.

'i'he ways of God, Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living

preachers, HORACE SMITH.

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a

book, (1779-1849.)

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook.
HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor DAY-stars! that ope your eyes with Weep without woe, and blush without morn, to twinkle

a crime,' From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- O, inay I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender tion,

Your lore sublime!
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle
As a libation.

“Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy

glory, Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending

Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “in robes like lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lilless How vain your grandeur! ah, how traneye,

sitory Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy

Are human flowers !" Incense on high. Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly beauty

Artist, The floor of nature's temple tessellate,

With which thou paintest Nature's What numerous emblems of instructive

wide-spread hall, duty

What a delightful lesson thou impartest Your forins create !

Of love to all! ’Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made that swingeth,

for pleasure ; And tolls its perfume on the passing

Blooming o'er field and wave by day air,

and night, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever From every source your sanction bids

ringeth
A call to prayer.

Harmless delight. Not to the domes where crumbling arch Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary and column

For such a world of thought could Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

furnish scope?

ours;

me treasure

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