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And Fame her trumpet blew
That henceforth round him few.
Though he may yield, Hard press'd, and wounded fall
Forsaken on the field ;
His regal vestments soild,
He is a king for all.
Had he but stood aloof!
Against temptation's darts !
Tears have not ceased to flow;
To think above that noble soul brought low, That wise and soaring spirit foolid, enslaved
Thus, thus he had been saved !
It might not be!
Had been too rudely rent ;
fain would prove
Regretful love His
country By grateful honours lavish'd on his
Who unrewarded gave
The land he trod
Where dearer are the daisies of the sod
Above the bank on which his limbs he flung, While some sweet plaint he breathed ;
The streams he wander'd near, The maidens whom he loved, the
songs All, all are dear!
The arch-blue eyes
Arch, but for love's disguiseOf Scotland's daughters soften at his strain ; Her hardy sons sent forth across the main To drive the ploughshare through earth's virgin
soils, Lighten with it their toils; And sister-lands have learned to love the tongue In which such songs are sung.
For doth not song
To the whole world belong?
A heritage to all ? At the age of thirty-six the once fashionable and admired poetess, L. E. L., died, in the first year
her marriage, under very tragic and mysterious circumstances, at Cape Coast Castle, the dreary solitude of which she painfully felt, and where her last verses to her English friends were written, full of yearning love, amidst which it is easy to detect an ominous gloom :
I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone. To my mind there is deep truth, pointing a moral for many such bruised and broken lives as the foregoing, in Robert Browning's profound thoughts, supposed to be said by the inventor of
Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable
Namę? Builder and Maker, Thou, of houses not made
with hands; What, have fear of change from Thee, who art
ever the same? Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that
Thy power expands ? There shall never be one lost good! What was,
shall live as before ; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying
sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so
much good more, On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a
perfect round. All we have will’d, or hoped, or dream'd of good,
shall exist; Not-its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor
good power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for
the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour; The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth
too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the
bard; Enough that He heard it once; we shall hear it
And what is our failure here but a triumph's evi
dence For the fulness of the days? Have we wither'd
or agonized ? Why else was the pause prolong’d, but that singing
might issue thence? Why rush'd the discords in, but that harmony
should be prized Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear;
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal
But God has a few of us, whom He whispers in the
The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we
The fatal epoch we are considering is not fatal, but, on the contrary, very bright and cheering, to some poets—amongst them to the rising American Saxe, who is far from believing that man was made
LINES ON MY THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY.
Ah me! the moments will not stay!
has rolld away;
As thus I haste the milestones by,
J. GODFREY SAXE. At the age of forty-one, in 1835, died that admirable woman and admired poetess, Mrs. Felicia Hemans. Over her grave were inscribed some lines from one of her own dirges :
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair Spirit, rest thee now!
His seal was on thy brow.
Soul to its place on high!
No more may fear to die. Contemplating her serene departure, and that of other noble women who have been diligent workers, and have left their mark on our annals, and have pointed us the way upwards, we feel that