A noble army, in the exulting sight

Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right' But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken

Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;

And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;

And, for the strength whereby the just and pure

Thus steadfastly endure,

Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,

Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay-
His love hath made it day

With those that sat in darkness.-Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death."-- Wordsworth

I SAW him at his sport erewhile,

The bright exulting boy,

Like Summer's lightning came the smile

Of his young spirit's joy;

A flash that wheresoe'r it broke,

To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-color'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide!

And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all Spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet's dew;

He flung them o'er the wave in showers,

Till, gazing, scarce I knew

Which seem'd more pure, or bright or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,

Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steel o'er the dawn of such clear day?
I saw once more that aspect bright-
The boy's meek head was bow'd

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

In silence o'er the Book of Light,

And, like a golden cloud-
The still cloud of a pictured sky-
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem'd him fair,
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!

The being born to toil, to die,

To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny

Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
The soul, the awakening soul I saw,
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face :

As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,

Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight:
Lovely, but solemn it arose,

Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,* undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought-

Oh! little dream'd the brooding child,

Of what within me wrought,

While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,

And quiver'd to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of his gaze;

A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;

To make the proud heart meekly wise,

By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
It seem'd as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its reposc
My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh-
The power of infant sanctity!

467

"All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the red 'eavec tablets of my heart."-Haywood.

O Father! mould my heart once more,
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

"Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,

Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship here and every where."- Wordsworth.

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens!-I lift mine eye
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still!-that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
Í bless thee Ŏ my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
Í bless thee, Ŏ my God!

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden-'midst the mountains old
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,

And the wild sound of waters uncontroll'&-
And upon many a desert plain and shore-
No solitude-for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed

The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye, To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man's heart-if I have kept it free

And pure-a consecration unto thee:

1 bless thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power-if thou hast made
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become

Native as early melodies of home :

T bless thee, O my God!

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,

A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne
Or but one hope, one prayer :-for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved-that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a coloring halo from above,

Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,

Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine:
I bless thee, O my God!

469

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed :
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.

I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes-
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:-
I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!

VOL. II.-40

470

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Yes! the young vernal voices in the skies

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,

The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more-
Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still!-to thee I come,
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"Many an eye

May wail the dimming of our shining star.”—Shakspeare
A GLORIOUS Voice hath ceased!-

Mournfully, reverently-the funeral chant

Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,

In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!

A more Æolian melancholy tone

Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back-
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently-They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind-

They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own

To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love

And he is silent!-Past the living stream

They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear-

And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills.
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move-
And he is silent!-he, whose flexile lips

Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life unsprang :-Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,

And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there

To the seer's voice: phantoms of color'd thought,