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While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-
Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,
Young holy hearts were stirr'd;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,

Of stately mein, yet wild and wan,
Of proud, yet restless eye.

But drops that would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gush'd free,

As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
Forgotten! e'en by thee!


"Am I so changed?-and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play'd-
This brow hath been all bath'd in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made.
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain-

My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-
Tell me those words again!

* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

"Life hath been heavy on my head;
I come a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."

-She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept,
Shook all her thrilling frame-
She fell upon his neck, and wept,

And breathed her brother's name.
Her brother's name!-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?

-He was the bard of gifts divine,
To sway the hearts of men ;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the Sword and Pen!


THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound-for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words.
While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around,
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie-
Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee,
Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer



HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth's flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sadly and sternly heard

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board, with the mirthful word, And the red wine's foaming flow; Until that sullen, booming knell, Flung out from every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit fell, With a weight, and with a chain. Wo for the wanderer then

In the wild deer's forests far!
No cottage lamp, to the hauuts of men,
Might guide him as a star.
And wo for him, whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd.

And yet a deeper wo,

For the watchers by the bed,
Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low,
And rest forsook the head.
For the mother doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,
And to feel its fitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness, in chieftain's hall!
Darkness, in peasant's cot!
While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize,
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again!

Heap the yule-fagots high,

Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days.


OH! lovely voices of the sky

Which hymn'd the Saviour's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,

Ye that sang," Peace on earth" ?
To us yet speak the strains

Wherewith, in time gone by,
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,
Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams
That hour Heaven's glory shed,
Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherd's head.

Be near, through life and death,
As in that holiest night
Of hope, and joy, and faith-
Oh! clear and shining light!

Oh! star which led to Him, whose love
Brought down man's ransom free-
Where art thou ?-'midst the host above,
May we still gaze on thee?

In Heaven thou art not set,
Thy rays earth may not dim;
Send them to guide us yet,

Oh! star which led to Him!


"But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves; for the wind was contrary."-St. Matt. xiv. 24.

FBAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;

And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bow'd.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill—

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased!-that word
Pass'd through the gloomy sky;

The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast,
As when the righteous falls asleep,

When death's fierce throes are past.
Thou that didst rule the angry hour,

And tame the tempest's mood-
Oh! send thy spirit forth in power
O'er our dark souls to brood!


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