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Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! death doth keep his state ;
no guards defend
No smiling courtiers tread;
A dying head.
An infant wail alone;
The parting groan.
Beyond the stars!
There lies the soulless clod;
Wakes with his God!
Hope leads the child to plant the flower, the man to sow the seed;
8. DEATH. - Horace Smith.
FATE! Fortune! Chance! whose blindness, hostility or kindness,
Play such strange freaks with human destinies, Contrasting poor and wealthy, the life-diseased and healthy,
The blessed, the cursed, the witless and the wise, Ye have a master; one, who mars what ye have done ; Levelling all that move beneath the sun,
Take courage, ye that languish beneath the withering anguish
And lay him prostrate, helpless, at your feet! 0, Champion strong! Righter of wrong! Justice, equality, to thee belong, —
Death! Where Conquest crowns his quarrel, and the victor, wreathed with
laurel, While trembling Nations bow beneath his rod, On his guarded throne reposes, in living apotheūsis,
The Lord's anointed and earth's demigod, What form of fear croaks in his ear “ The victor's car is but a funeral bier" ?
Leaps, at a bound, the shuddering castle's moat,
With rattling finger grasps him by the throat,
And night has veiled his crime from every eye, When nothing living daunts him, and no fear of justice haunts him,
Who wakes his conscience-stricken agony ?
No moment's ease from any human act,
To the diseased, with cureless anguish racked, -
9. LACIIRYMOSE WRITERS. – Horace Smith.
Ye human screech-owls, who delight
To herald woe, - whose day is night,
If ye must needs uphold the pall,
And walk at Pleasure's funeral,
that Earth 's a charnel ; Life, Incessant wretchedness and strife; That all is doom below and wrath above;
The sun and moon, sepulchral lamps ;
The sky, a vault whose baleful damps
Ungrateful and calumnious crew,
Whose plaints, as impious as untrue, From morbid intellects derive their birth,
Away! begone, to mope and moan,
And weep in some asylum lone,
Earth! on whose stage, in pomp arrayed,
Life's joyous interlude is played,
Thy woods and waters, hills and dales,
How dead must be the soul that fails To see and bless thy beauties infinite!
Man! whose high intellect supplies
A never failing Paradise
Whose heart 's a fount of fresh delight,
Pity the Cynics, who would blight
0, Woman! who from realms above
Hast brought to Earth a Heaven of love, Terrestrial angel, beautiful as pure!
No pains, no penalties, dispense
On thy traducers, their offence
Father and God! whose love and might
To every sense are blazoned bright On the vast three-leaved Bible, Earth, Sea, Sky,
Pardon the impugners of Thy laws,
Expand their hearts, and give them cause To bless the exhaustless grace they now deny!
10. THE SANCTUARY. - Horace Smith. Adapted. For man there still is left one sacred charter ;
One refuge still remains for human woes. Victim of care! or persecution's martyr!
Who seek'st a sure asylum from thy foes, Learn that the holiest, safest, purest, best,
Is man's own breast !
There is a solemn sanctuary, founded
By God himself; not for transgressors meant; But that the man oppressed, the spirit-wounded,
And all beneath the world's injustice bent,
To peace within.
The living heart, is unprofaned and pure,
Who thither fly; it is an ark secure,
Its peaceful path.
Terrestrial antepast of heavenly joy, Never, 0, never may misdeed or folly
My claim to thy beatitudes destroy! Still may I keep this Paradise unlost,
Where'er I 'm tost!
E'en in the flesh, the spirit disembodied,
Unchecked by time and space, may soar elate, In silent awe to commune with the Godhead,
Or the millennium reign anticipate, When Earth shall be all sanctity and love,
Like Heaven above.
How sweet to turn from anguish, guilt and madness,
From scenes where strife and tumult never cease,
Where all is concord, charity and peace;
On its own nest!
When, spleenful as the sensitive Mimosa,
We shrink from Winter's touch and Nature's gloom, There may we conjure up a Vallombrosa,
Where groves and bowers in Summer beauty bloom, And the heart dances in the sunny glade
Fancy has made.
But, would we dedicate to nobler uses
This bosom sanctuary, let us there
While high and charitable thoughts, and prayer,
With love of kind.