droops and mourns, bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns; and how she veils her flowers when he is gone, as if she scorned to be looked on by an inferior eye, or did contemn to wait upon a meaner light than him;— when this I meditate, methinks the flowers have spirits far more generous than ours; and give us fair examples, to despise the servile fawnings and idolatries wherewith we court these earthly things below, which merit not the service we bestow. But, O my God! though grovelling I appear upon the ground, and have a rooting here, which hales me downward, yet, in my desire, to that which is above me I aspire; and all my best affections I profess to Him that is the Sun of Righteousness. Oh! keep the morning of His incarnation—the burning noontide of His bitter passionthe night of His descending—and the height of His ascension-ever in my sight! that, imitating Him in what I may, I never follow an inferior

way.

66. THE INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG.-Mrs. Hemans.
Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current; fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as, by a tempest's wing,
Borne leaf-like on to where the mists of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder-yet within
Proudly, and dauntlessly; and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast-
A Woman stood upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved
As if triumphantly: she press'd her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,

Wafting a wild, proud strain, her song of death :

"Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters, roll! and bear our lives with thee!

The weary bird that storms have tossed, would seek the sunshine's calm,
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to the woods of balm.

Roll on my warrior's eye hath looked upon another's face-
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam's trace!
My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to his dream:
He flings away the broken reed !-Roll swifter yet, thou stream!

The voice that spoke or other days is hushed within his breast,
But mine its lonely music hears, and will not let me rest;
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone.
I cannot live without that light!-Father of waves! roll on!
Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase?
The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place?
The hand that spread his hunter's board, and deck'd his couch of yore?
He will not !—Roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!
Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow,
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe;
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.

And thou, my babe! though born, like me, to woman's weary lot,
Smile!—to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not;
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love away;—
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn! from sorrow and decay.
She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep;
And where the unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep;
And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream........
One moment, and that realm is ours!-On, on, dark rolling stream!"

67-PAST AND PRESENT.-Hood.

I remember, I remember the house where I was born

The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon, nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember the roses red and white,-
The violets, and the lily-cups-those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,—and where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,—the tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then that is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember the fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance; but now...'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven than when I was a boy!

68.-THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW TO HER SON.-Willis.

1 Woe for my vine-clad home! that it should ever be so dark to me, with its bright threshold and its whispering tree! that I should ever come, fearing the lonely echo of a tread, beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead! * Lead on, my orphan Boy! the home is not so desolate to theeand the low shiver in the linden tree may bring to thee a joy; but oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, to her who with a joyous spirit bore thee! 3 Lead on! for thou art now my sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, and the strong heart I leaned upon is broken; and I have seen his brow-the forehead of my upright one, and just-trod, by the hoof of battle, in the dust. 4 He will not meet thee there who bless'd thee at the eventide, my son! and when the shadows of the night steal on, he will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, are in the icy keeping of the sod! Ay, my own boy! thy sire is with the sleepers of the valley cast; and the proud glory of my life hath passed with his high glance of fire. Woe that the linden and the vine should bloom, and a just man be gathered to the tomb! Why-bear them proudly, Boy! it is the sword he girded to his thigh-it is the helm he wore in victory. And shall we have no joy?...For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died!—I will forget my sorrow-in my pride!

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69.-PLEASURES OF HOPE.-Campbell.

At summer's eve, when Heaven's aërial bow
Spans, with bright arch, the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
"Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain with its azure hue.
-Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been;
And every form that fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity?

Can Wisdom lend, with all her boasted power,
The pledge of joy's anticipated hour?

Ah no! she darkly sees the fate of man—
Her dim horizon bounded to a span;

Or, if she holds an image to the view,
'Tis nature pictured too severely true.

With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light,
That pours remotest rapture on the sight:
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time,
Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade.
When all the sister planets have decayed;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

70.-TRUTH DELIVERED FROM THE DUNGEON.-Whitney.
Three Furies fell, which turn the world to ruth,
Both Envy, Strife, and Slander, here appear;
In dungeon dark they long enclosed Truth,

But Time at length did loose his daughter dear,
To set aloft that sacred lady bright,

Who things long hid reveals and brings to light.

Though Strife make fire, though Envy eat her heart,
The innocent though Slander rend and spoil;
Yet Time will come, and take this lady's part,

And break her bonds, and bring her foes to foil.
Despair not then, though Truth be hidden oft;
Because at length she shall be set aloft.

71.-MELROSE ABBEY AS IT WAS.-Scott.

Slowly the Old Monk led the way, where, cloistered round, the garden lay; the pillared arches were over their head, and beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. Spreading herbs, and flowrets bright, glistened with the dew of night; nor herb nor flowret glistened there, but was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. By a steel-clenched postern door, they entered now the chancel tall; the darkened roof rose high aloof on pillars, lofty, and light, and small. Full many a scutcheon

and banner riven, shook to the cold night wind of heaven; and there the dying lamps did burn, near many a low and lonely urn. O fading honours of the dead! O high ambition, lowly laid! . . . The moon on the east oriel shone, through slender shafts of shapely stone, by foliaged tracery combined: thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, 'twixt poplars straight, the osier wand in many a freakish knot had twined; then framed a spell, when the work was done, and changed the willow-wreaths to stone. The silver light, so pale and faint, showed many a prophet, and many a saint, whose image on the glass was dyed; full in the midst, his Cross of Red triumphant Michael brandishèd, and trampled the Apostate's pride. The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, and threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

72.-MELROSE ABBEY AS IT IS.-Scott.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose right, go visit it by the pale moonlight; for the gay beams of lightsome day gild but to flout the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, and each shafted oriel glimmers white; when the cold light's uncertain shower streams on the ruined central tower; when buttress and buttress alternately seem framed of ebon and ivory; when silver edges the imagery, and the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; when distant Tweed is heard to rave, and the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;...then go-but go alone the while—then view St. David's ruined pile; and, home returning, soothly swear, was never scene so sad and fair!

73.-HAPPINESS.-Heber.

One morning in the month of May I wandered o'er the hill;
Though nature all around was gay, my heart was heavy still.

Can God, I thought, the just, the great, these meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny to man's estate the boon of happiness?

Tell me, ye Woods, ye smiling Plains, ye blessed Birds around,
In which of nature's wide domains can bliss for man be found?
The Birds wild-carolled overhead, the breeze around me blew,
And Nature's awful Chorus said-no bliss for man she knew.

I questioned Love, whose early ray so rosy bright appears,
And heard the timid genius say--his light was dimmed by tears.
I questioned Friendship: Friendship sighed, and thus her answer gave—
The few whom fortune never turn'd were wither'd in the grave.