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ON A DECEASED CHILD.
AND this is, death! how cold and still,
And yet too beautiful for tears.
But when I see the fair wide brow,
That never looked so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn;
The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.
And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.
Once more I gaze-and swift and far
Move up thy path-way in the sky:
But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfading and divine.
Then let the burthened heart be free,
The mournful beauty of the dead;
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;
But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell!
HYMN OF NATURE.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lours upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade!
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To weave on high their plumes of green,
God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
And every spark that walks alone
God of the world! the hour must come,
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
The beauty of the world below.
EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.
It was when from Spain, across the main, the Cid had come to Rome,
He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint
"Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they?"—" Seven kings do sit thereon,
As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne.
The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss
Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant
For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit,
The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."
"Ha!" quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss,
To see the Castle planted beneath the Flower-de-lys. No harm I hope, good Father Pope, although I move thy chair."
In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair).
The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day;
Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly; Looks sour and bad, I trow he had, as grim as grim might