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, Received the mystic ensign. From And should my youth, as youth is apt, the host I know, Some harshness show, 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 hollytree? 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 pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by poverty, and woebegone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst jour ney on: Thy youth in ignorance and labor past, And thine old age all barrenness and blast. Hard was thy fate, which, while it doomed to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the blow; And robbed of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellowkind. Abject of thought, the victim of dis tress, To wander in the world's wide wilderness. 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 CATARACT OF LODORE. "How does the water To second and third To them and the king. From its sources which well Through moss and through brake, And away it proceeds, In sun and in shade, Here it comes sparkling, The cataract strong Collecting, projecting, 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 sea ward way Through wider-spreading shores. Avon! I gaze and know! The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way, It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, |