That garden of roses I ne'er can forget;

But oft when alone in the spring of the year, I think "Is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendamere? No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone;

And a dew was distill'd from the flowrets, that gave
The fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory
draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus sweet to my heart, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendamere.
T. MOORE.

UP

The voice of praise at early morn;
And He accepts the punctual hymn,
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will He turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noon-tide;
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,-
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this our hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestow'd
Upon the service of our God!

Look up to heaven! th' industrious sun
Already half his race hath run:
He cannot halt or go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.
Lord! since his rising in the east,
If we have falter'd or transgress'd,
Guide from thy love's abundant source
What yet remains of this day's course.

Help with thy grace, through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

WORDSWORTH,

79. THE DEATH OF MARMION.
[From MARMION.]

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound,

And strove to staunch, the gushing wound:

The monk, with unavailing cares,

Exhausted all the Church's prayers:

Ever he said, that close and near

A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, "Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!" So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, fiend! with cruel hand
"Shake not the dying sinner's sand; -
"O look, my son, upon that sign
"Of the Redeemer's grace divine!
"O think on faith and bliss! -
"By many a death-bed I have been
"And many a sinner's parting seen,
"But never aught like this!"
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swell'd the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;·
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!".

"Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

80. A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

TWA

WAS early day, and sunlight stream'd
Soft through a quiet room,

That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd,
Still, but with nought of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page
Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,

And touch'd the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirit's own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm benignant eye;

Some ancient promise, breathing yet
Of immortality;

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchless faith survives:
For every feature said-"I know
That my Redeemer lives!"

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death.
Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt.

MRS. HEMANS.

81. THE HOLLY TREE.

READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye, that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Order'd by an intelligence so wise

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen!

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize:

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away;