From the great morning of the world, when first God dawned on chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. SHELLEY. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- WOLFE. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their green sward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or lips move tunefully along The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brook, And round the hamlet-fanes, Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free fair homes of England! May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flow'ry sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God. HEMANS. EVENING PRAYER IN A GIRLS' SCHOOL. HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, Gaze on 'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, Her lot is on you-to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pair, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, DEATH'S SEASONS. HEMANS. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; A time for softer tears-but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, |