Await her coming. Terrible in arms, Before them towered Dunois, his manly face

Dark-shadowed by the helmet's iron cheeks.

The assembled court gazed on the marshalled train,

And at the gate the aged prelate stood To pour his blessing on the chosen host.

And now a soft and solemn symphony

Was heard, and chanting high the hallowed hymn,

From the near convent came the vestal maids.

A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,

Snow-white, they bore. A mingled sentiment

Of awe, and eager ardor for the fight, Thrilled through the troops, as he

the reverend man

Took the white standard, and with heavenward eye Called on the God of Justice, blessing it.

The maid, her brows in reverence unhelmed,

Her dark hair floating on the morn

ing gale,

Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand,

the host

I know,

Some harshness show,
All vain asperities, I day by day
Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as when all the summer trees

are seen

So bright and green

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display

Less bright than they,

But when the bare and wintry woods

we see,

What then so cheerful as the holly

tree?

So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem amid the young and gay

More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree.

Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the win.

try storm

Blows bleak no more on thy unsheltered form;

Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;

I pause, and ponder on the days to

come.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh?

Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,

Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!

Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee,

And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come

To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb:

For squalid want, and the black scorpion care,

Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.

I sorrow for the ills thy life hath known,

As through the world's long pilgrim

age, alone,

Haunted by poverty, and woebegone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst jour

WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING. Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands wend, and there In lovely nature see the God of love. The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the wild music of the windswept grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest

Rouse not such ardor in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam Flashed from the broken stream, Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain; Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height,

I

mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands shall repair, Feed with all nature's charms mine

the full tear that down my cheek will steal,

Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands bend my way
And meet Religion there.
She needs not haunt the high-arched
dome to pray

Where storied windows dim the doubtful day.

With Liberty she loves to rove, Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale;

Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.

Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the night

Pours in the north her silver streams of light,

She woos reflection in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done; And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet

In playing there, had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he,
Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many hereabout,
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

"How does the water
Come down at Lodore!"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon, at the word;

There first came one daughter,
And then came another,

To second and third
The request of their brother;
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was laureate
To them and the king.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake,
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,

And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry,
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning. And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling,

Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,

Fast

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping, and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending

All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,

And this way, the water comes down at Lodore.

roars;

flow thy waters on their seaward way

Through wider-spreading shores.