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THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

"A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, to waylay.

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death." WORDSWORTH.

I SAW him at his sport erewhile,

The bright, exulting boy!

Like summer's lightning came the smile
Of his young spirit's joy-

A flash that, wheresoe'er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;

And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet's dew;

He flung them o'er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew

Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom

Made earth one festal scene, Where the dull shadow of the tomb Seem'd as it ne'er had been. How could one image of decay Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day?

I saw once more that aspect bright-
The boy's meek head was bow'd
In silence o'er the Book of Light,

And, like a golden cloud—
The still cloud of a pictured sky-
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem'd him fair,

When, in the fountain-glade, A creature of the sky and air,

Almost on wings he play'd; Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit the young human being's brow!

The being born to toil, to die,

To break forth from the tomb

Unto far nobler destiny

Than waits the skylark's plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower.

The soul, the awakening soul I saw-
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe
Sweeping o'er that fair face:

As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!

The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,

Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,1 undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought—

Oh! little dream'd the brooding child
Of what within me wrought,

While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd, And quiver'd to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of his gaze-

A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;

To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.

It seem'd as if a temple rose

Before me brightly there; And in the depths of its repose

My soul o'erflow'd with prayer, Feeling a solemn presence nigh—. The power of infant sanctity!

O Father! mould my heart once more
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore

E'en with that pure one's faith-
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

"Be mute who will, who can,

Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,

Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound

To worship, here and every where."-WORDSWORTH,

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens!-I lift mine cye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met

1 "All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the red-leaved tablets of my heart."-HAYWOOD.

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The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!

["I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces -A Poet's Dying Hymn.' It appeared in the last number of Blackwood," (April 1832.)-Letter from Mrs Hemans.

"It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding."-Memoir, p. 254.]

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER

SCOTT.

"Many an eye

May wail the dimming of our shining star."-- SHAKSPEARE.

A GLORIOUS Voice hath ceased! Mournfully, reverently-the funeral chant Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year,

[groves,

In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Eolian, melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back-
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind;
They bear him through the household paths, the
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-
And he is silent! Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice,
On alien shores, his true heart burn'd to hear-
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move-
And he is silent!-he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang,-vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the Wild Huntsman's band. And still they
To those fair scenes imperishably bound, [live,
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence! [dead!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the

Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou there-to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came! Sing reverently
The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home,
And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic-love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each :
Yes-the free spirit of humanity

From field or wave,

May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known.
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier,
By the veil'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home. The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd:
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour'd grave! The grave!-oh, say
Rather the shrine !—an altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn-a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things, where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain
Making victorious melody ascend

High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid-
The crown'd of men?

A lowly, lowly song.

Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,

Father divine !

A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are thine !

A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the carth to sway,

From thee was sent :

Now call'st thou back thine ownHence is that radiance flown

To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow'd we saw,

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