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Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!

Her lot is on you—to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, ol.! to love through all things. Therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-Oh! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Il est dans la Nature d'aimer à se livrer à l'idée même qu'on redoute." Corinne.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee!

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale !-
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all-

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
O void unmarked !-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning

Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bowed be our hearts to think on what we are,

When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanished star!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

"The inviolate Island of the sage and free."--BYRON

Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud
Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam :
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,
The severed land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome-
Yes, all are glorious,-yet again
I bless thee, land of home!

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead-the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whispered round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea:

Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,

To live and die for thee!

THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS.

THE kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,

The mounds arise where heroes died;
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheered by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake,
Resigned the bitter cup to take;
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.

By no proud stone

Where sleep they, Earth?
Their narrow couch of rest is known;

The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;

No-not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strewed

The ashes of that multitude:

It may be that each day we tread

Where thus devoted hearts have bled;

And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below.

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,

Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,

Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled,
With knowledge of their presence filled,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
-But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,-but their sod,
Unknown to man, is marked of God!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Pregar, pregar, pregar,

Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?"

ALFIERI.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;

Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Called thy harvest-work to leave-
Pray ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,

Heaven's first star alike ye see--
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

"Von Bäumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!"

OH! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,

LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

To the stillness of the groves?

The summer birds are calling

Thy household porch around,

And the merry waters falling

With sweet laughter in their sound.
And a thousand bright-veined flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours-

But when wilt thou return?

Oh thou hast wandered long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song
In thine altered heart hath died.
Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;

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