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THE PENITENT'S OFFERING.

ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX.
THOU that with pallid cheek,
And eyes in sadness meek,

And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,

From thy long wanderings won,

Before the all-healing Son,

Did'st bow thee to the earth-O lost and found!

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.

ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. ["The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought, from any previous experience, that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children,

two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arins, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping :

But something lies

Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened-their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled-all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side-aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows:

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O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If. for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,

And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;

O gentle forms, entwined

Like tendrils, which the wind

May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink Send from your calm profound

A still, small voice-a sound

Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!

By all the pure, meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die
O'er her worn spirit shed,

O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hast a charmèd cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me-a woman-bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring!

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine Into so proud a wreath,

For that resplendent gift of thine

Heroes have smiled in death: Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat,

As when a trumpet's note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet :

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast, By words of home-born love be bless'd.

A hollow sound is in thy song,
A mockery in thine eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy-

For kindly looks to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.

Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed,

The cool, fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

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Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught With vain remembrance and troubled thought; Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth Links it with regions more bright than earth.

THE ANGEL'S GREETING.

"Hark! they whisper!-Angels say, Sister spirit! come away." POPE.

COME to the land of peace!

Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away,

The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright, and blest,

And crown'd for ever! Midst that shining band, Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land,

Thy spirit shall find rest!

Thou hast been long alone:

Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore, The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one.

In silence wert thou left:

Come to thy sisters! Joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan head

The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy father! It is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode,

Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory-death by love no place. Come, spirit! to thy God.

A FAREWELL TO WALES,

FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH GROVE," ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

THE Sound of thy streams in my spirit I bearFarewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land!

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["It was about this time (1828) that The Farewell to Wales' was written.

"I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;

For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes.' Mrs Hemans always spoke of this land of her childhood, her home, and her dead,' with interest and affection. When she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to the pain she had suffered-in addition to the sorrow of parting from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of lifeupon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that oldfashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to return and make her home among them again."-CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 206-7.]

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

YE tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the summer's murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers-
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring-

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["The description of her feelings, when the actual parting took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the affectionate sadness of her Farewell to Wales,' and the blessing she thus fondly left with it :—

"The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear-
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

'Oh! that Tuesday morning!' (thus she wrote in her first letter to St Asaph.) I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness

was over.

Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we

found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say of female protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had

a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of my own boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what can I say to you? ...... When I look back on the short time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished; I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.' -Memoir, p. 151-3.]

WE RETURN NO MORE!1

"When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring."
CHILDE HAROLD.

"WE return!-we return!-we return no more!" So comes the song to the mountain shore, From those that are leaving their Highland home For a world far over the blue sea's foam: "We return no more!" and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

"We return!-we return!-we return no more!"
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er;
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart :
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.

"We return!-we return !-we return no more!"
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset's robe hath pass'd,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?

No! It is not the rose that returns no more;A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;

1 Ha til!-ha til!-ha til mi tulidle!—" we return!-we return!-we return no more!"-the burden of the Highland song of emigration.

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