He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek,
And the hand of lifeless clay,
Till bursting words, yet all too weak,
Gave his soul's passion way.

"Oh Father! it is vain

This late remorse and deep! Speak to me, Father, once again! I weep, behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire! Were but this work undone, I would give England's crown, my Sire! To hear thee bless thy son.

"Speak to my mighty grief;

Ere now the dust hath stirred.

Hear me but hear me !-Father, Chief,
My King! I must be heard!

Hushed! hushed!--how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus ?-Woe, woe, for all
The love my soul forgot!

Thy silver hairs I see

So still, so sadly bright!
And, Father, Father, but for me,
They had not been so white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last
No longer could'st thou strive,-
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say, "Forgive!"

"Thou wert the noblest King,
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;

And thou did'st prove where spears were proved

In war the bravest heart;
Ah! ever the renowned and loved
Thou wert--and there thou art.

"Thou that my boyhood's guide
Did'st take fond joy to be!-
The time I've sported at thy side,
And climbed thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My Sire, I see thee lie;

How will that sad, still face of thine
Look on me till I die!"

NO MORE.

BY HEMANS.

No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,
A last low summer breeze, a far off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words-those murmurs of
Farewell,

No more!

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,

To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice-

No more!

A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze-

No more!

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove With all our native music in the air;

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,

And turn and read our own heart's answer there

No more!

Words of despair! yet earth's, all earth's—the wo Their passion breathes the desolately deep! That sound in heaven-Oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones-to pant, to weep

No more!

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,

To wear impatiently a secret chain,

To waste the untold riches of the heart

No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn, For human love-and never quench that thirst; To pour the soul out, winning no return,

O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed—

No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead,—
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fled-

No more!

Words of triumphant music-bear me on;

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, To learn in joy ;-to struggle, to despair

No more!

HUMAN LIFE.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

I WALKED the fields at morning's prime,
The grass was ripe for mowing,
The skylark sang his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,
His pulse with rapture beating,
Deems life's inheritance is joy—
The future proudly greeting."

I wandered forth at noon:-Alas!
On earth's maternal bosom

The scythe had left the withering grass,
And stretched the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,
Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve abroad I strayed,
Through lonely hay-fields musing,
While every breeze that round me played
Rich fragrance was diffusing.

The perfumed air, the hush of eve,
To purer hopes appealing,

O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve,
Scattered the balm of healing.

For thus the actions of the just,"

When memory hath enshrined them,

E'en from the dark and silent dust

Their odour leave behind them.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

By A. A. PROCTER.

GIRT round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected

Shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of Heaven

Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence

Enthroned in Heaven looks down

Upon her own calm mirror,

Upon a sleeping town;

For Bregenz, that quaint city

Upon the Tyrol shore,

Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years or more.

Her battlements and towers,
From off their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep:
Mountain and lake and valley
A sacred legend know,

Of how the town was saved one night
Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred
A Tyrol maid had fled

To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;