Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. There take an inventory of all I have; To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, I dare now call my own. O Cromwell! Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not, in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies. SHAKESPEARE. 116. THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION, HOU art, O God! the life and light THOU Of all this wondrous world we see; Are but reflections caught from Thee. Through golden vistas into heaven- When night, with wings of starry gloom, When youthful spring around us breathes, T. MOORE. 117. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, brown and sere: Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread: The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one, who in her youthful beauty died, W. C. BRYANT. 118. LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY. BREATHES there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, From wand'ring on a foreign strand? High though his title, proud his name, sprung, SIR W. SCOTT. 119. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. H that those lips had language! Life hath pass'd I will obey, not willingly alone, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-it was- Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown: May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return: What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived; By hopes unfounded every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor: And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, N |