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Home of brave men and the girls they adore!
Fearless, peerless,
Thy land, my land!

Glory be with her and peace evermore!



O'er her husband sat Ione bendingMarble-like and marble-hued he lay ; Underneath her raven locks descending, Paler seem'd his face and ashen grey; And so white his brow, White and cold as snow— Husband! Gods! his soul has passed away! Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow; Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough! And they raised the pile upon the meadow, And they heaped the mournful cypress too; And they laid the dead On his funeral bed, And they kindled up the flames below.



Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow!

The wild red-rose-the speedwell's peeping eyesOur own blue-bell-the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes— I love ye all!

Beautiful nurslings of the early dew,

Fanned in your loveliness by every breeze,
And shaded o'er by green and arching trees:
I often wished that I were one of you,

Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas-
I love ye all!

Beautiful children of the glen and dell

The dingle deep-the moorland stretching wide,
And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side!

Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell;
And though the wordling, scorning, may deride-
I love ye all!


'Tis earth shall lead destruction; she shall end-
The stars shall wonder why she comes no more
On her accustomed orbit, and the sun
Miss one of his apostle lights; the moon,
An orphan orb, shall seek for earth for aye,
Through time's untrodden depths, and find her not;
No more shall morn out of the holy east
Stream o'er the ambient air her level light,
Nor evening, with her spectral fingers, draw
Her star-spread curtain round the head of earth:
Her footsteps never thence again shall grace
The blue sublime of heaven.


A worm hath rights

A king cannot despoil him of, nor sin;
Yet wrongs are things necessitate, like wants,
And oft are well permitted to best ends.
A double error sometimes sets us right.


Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form
And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,

Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. "Bring me the captive now!

My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift;

* Parrhasius, the Athenian painter, put to death a slave that he might better represent the agonies of nature in his grand work Prometheus, which he was then painting.

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens, around me play
Colours of such divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!

Look! as Prometheus in my picture here-
Quick-or he faints !-stand with the cordial near!
Now bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
So-let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! grey-haired, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
Pity' thee! So I do!

1 pity the dumb victim at the altar;
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine :
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
Hereafter?' Ay, hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?

Come from the grave to-morrow, with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man; we die

E'en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, e'en as they.
Strain well thy fainting eye;

For, when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
Yet there's a deathless name-

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn;
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me,
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me.

Ay, though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild ;-

All, I would do it all,

Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.
O heavens! but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive-Ha! on your lives,
Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives !
Vain, vain; give o'er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow.
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
Shivering hark! he mutters

Brokenly now-that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him-so-he's dead."



Mark well an old man's words; for snowy locks
Drop pearls of truth, which toil and tears have won.
He knows life's wrecking shoals, life's hidden rocks ;—
Hath gone the way which thou hast just begun.
Lost gold is found: lost hours are lost for aye.
Let time, young man, be deemed thy dearest store.
Life is an inn where thou wilt dwell a day;
Go soon the long old road, and come no more.
Be kind to poor Old Age: thy years roll on.
Bear with its weakness: thou art hale and strong.

It needs most helping love. Why give it none ?
'Twill soon need less it will not want thee long.
Kind mother's love is heavenliness below;
In our ill world, a temple undefiled.

Be good to thine, lest thou should'st come to know
What grief it is to have a worthless child.

Young love is sweet. 'Tis light to wander free;
To cast old dim-grown, for new shining, gem:
Mind yet thy parents: if they weary thee,

O think how much, how long, thou'st wearied them; CCCLXXVI. DR GEORGE WILSON, 18181. THE GARDEN.

From every clime and every shore,
Whatever choicest plant it bore,
By tributary nation sent,

Gave to that garden ornament.

A thousand stately flowers stood up,
With chiselled stem and carvèd cup;

With sculptured urns; with hanging bells ;
With trumpet-tubes; with honey-cells,
Wherein the bee found endless wells

Of nectar to be sipp'd;

And e'en the wasp forgot his malice,
When quaffing at each brimming chalice,
And sheathed his sword with poison tipp'd
Some bore their heads like butterflies,
With plumes and fluttering wings,

And others wore rare ornaments,

Like crowns of queens and kings.

And some spread out like banners
Hung o'er a dungeon-keep,
And others were all hollow'd out
And chased like goblets deep :

In which the drunken gnat could sleep

His day's debauch away,

And many a stealthy worm would creep

And make the buds his prey.

The bulrush grew at the water's edge,

With the paper-reed and the sword-leaved sedge,

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