Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! II. We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Best fight on well, for we taught him,-strike gallantly, THE LOST MISTRESS I. ALL's over, then-does truth sound bitter Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! II. And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully III. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? Mere friends are we,-well, friends the merest IV. For each glance of that eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour,— Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stays in my soul forever!— -Yet I will but say what mere friends say, I will hold your hand but as long as all may, HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. I. Он, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough II. And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows- Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge- And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA. NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the northwest died away; Suuset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; In the dimmest northeast distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray; "Here and here did England help me, how can I help England?"-say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT ST. PRAXED'S CHURCH. [ROME, 15-.] VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. know : Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, |