Things that we judge of by a light too faint:
Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned muse, or saint!
Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved-
Then, when her child the hallowing touch received,
And such vibration to the mother went

That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear?
Opened a vision of that blissful place

Where dwells a sister-child? And was power given
Part of her lost one's glory back to trace
Even to this rite? For thus she knelt, and, ere
The summer-leaf had faded, passed to heaven.

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine.
Too brightly to shine long; another spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,

And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then! Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mold like thee,

As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again!

THE LITURGY.-WORDSWorth.

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear
Attract us still, and passionate exercise
Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies
Distinct with signs-through which, in fixedcareer,
As through the zodiac, moves the ritual year
Of England's church-stupendous mysteries!
Which whoso travels in her bosom, eyes
As he approaches them, with solemn cheer.
Enough for us to cast a transient glance

The circle through; relinquishing its story
For those whom heaven hath fitted to advance.
And, harp in hand, rehearse the King of Glory-
From his mild advent till his countenance
Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary.

DESCRIPTIVE POETRY.

PORTRAITS.-PROCTOR.

Then came a dark browed spirit, on whose head
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung;
She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand
Wandered for music-and it came: she sang
A song despairing, and the whispering winds
Seemed envious of her melody, and streamed
Amidst the wires, to rival her, in vain.

Short was the strain, but sweet: methought it spoke
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas,
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone,
And hopes decayed for ever: and my ear
Caught well-remembered names, 'Leucadia's rock,
At times, and 'faithless Phaon.' Then the form
Passed not, but seemed to melt in air away :
This was the Lesbian Sappho.

At last came one whom none could e'er mistake
Amidst a million: Egypt's dark-eyed queen:
The love, the spell, the bane of Anthony.
O, Cleopatra! who shall speak of thee?
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land

She moved, and light as a wood-nymph in her prime,
And crowned with costly gems, whose single price
Might buy a kingdom-yet how dim they shone
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beams
Flashed love and languishment: of varying humors
She seemed, yet subtle in her wildest mood,
As guile were to her passions ministrant.
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm

Fed on those blue and wandering veins that laced
Her rising bosom: aye, did sleep upon
The pillar of Anthony, and left behind,
In dark requital for its banquet,-death.

SABBATH EVENING IN AN INFECTED CITY.-WILSON.

Oh, unrejoicing Sabbath! not of yore
Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames
Thus silently! Now every sail is furled,
The oar hath dropped from out the rower's hand,
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty,
River of a desert lately filled with joy!
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone
The air is clear and cloudless as at sea
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead,
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends
Above the stillness of the towers and spires.
How idly hangs that arch magnificent
Across the idle river! Not a speck

Is seen to move along it. There it hangs,
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky!

THE CONTRAST.-H. SMITH.

Written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb., 1820.

I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness;

Begirt with his court, and in all the crowd,
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green,―
Blithely the birds were singing;

The cymbal replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken,

But every eye was dim with a tear,

And the silence by sobs was broken.

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour,
To the muffled drum's deep rolling ;
While the minute gun, with its solemn roar,
Drowned the death-bell's tolling.

The time since he walked in his glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried,

Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

We had fought the fight; from his lofty throne
The foe of our land we had tumbled,
And it gladdened each eye-save his alone
For whom that foe we humbled.

A daughter beloved-a queen-a son—
And a son's sole child had perished ;-
And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherished.

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness,

Like a vision throned,- -as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness.

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread,
Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,
Though the stream of time kept flowing;
When they spoke of our king 't was but to say,
That the old man's strength was going.

He is gone at length. He is laid in dust—
Death's hand his slumbers breaking,
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and blissful waking.

His people's heart is his funeral urn;

And should a sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him.

THE COMBAT.-SCOTT.

Their warning blast the bugles blew,
The pipe's shrill port aroused each clan;
In haste, the deadly strife to view,

The trooping warriors eager ran :
Thick round the lists their lances stood,
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood;
To Branksome many a look they threw,
The combatants' approach to view,
And bandied many a word of boast,
About the knight each favored most.

Meantime full anxious was the dame,
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
"Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane :
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent,
And frowning brow on brow was bent;
But yet not long the strife-for lo!
Himself, the knight of Deloraine,
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain,
In armor sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, and craved the combat due.
The dame her charm successful knew,
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew.

When for the lists they sought the plain,
The stately Ladye's silken rein

Did noble Howard hold;
Unarmed by her side he walked,

And much, in courteous phrase, they talked
Of feats of arms of old.

Costly his garb-his Flemish ruff
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff,
With satin slashed and lined;
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur,
His cloak was all of Poland fur,
His hose with silver twined;
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt,
Hung in a broad and studded belt;

Hence, in rude phrase, the borderers still
Called noble Howard, Belted Will.