How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck the hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

TO OUR ELDEST HEIR.—Mrs. Henry Coleridge.

DEEM not that our eldest heir

Wins too much of love and care;
What a parent's heart can spare,
Who can measure truly?
Early crops were never found
To exhaust that fertile ground,
Still with riches 't will abound,
Ever springing newly.

See in yonder plot of flowers
How the tallest lily towers,

Catching beams and kindly showers

Which the heavens are shedding.

While the younger plants below
Less of sun and breezes know,
Till beyond the shade they grow,

High and richly spreading.

She that latest leaves the nest,
Little fledgling much carest,
Is not therefore loved the best,

Though the most protected,
Nor the gadding, daring child,
Oft reproved for antics wild,
Of our tenderness beguiled,

Or in thought neglected.

'Gainst the islet's rocky shore
Waves are beating evermore,
Yet with blooms it 's scattered o'er,
Decked in softest lustre ;

Nature favors it no less

Than the guarded, still recess,
Where the birds for shelter press,
And the harebells cluster.

THE HUSBANDMAN. - Sterling.

EARTH, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, Golden ear and clustered wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man;

Man's a king, his throne is Duty,

Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,
All from dust receive their birth.

Barn, and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,
Earthly goods for earthly lives,
These are Nature's ancient pleasures,
These her child from her derives.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
'T is our stored and ample dwelling,
'Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness,
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

HELLVELLYN. Sir W. Scott.

In 1805, a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst the romantic scenery of the "Lake District," in the counties of Wes'moreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hell ellyn Mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards his remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier-dog, the sole companion of his rambles.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge* round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedicam* its left verge was defending,
One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou num

ber,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him

Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;

*Hills in the Lake District.

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are

gleaming,

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far down the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

Longfellow.

THERE is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves