THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Surviving him who raised.-O eloquence!

O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou the e-to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?-The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!-Sing reverently
The funeral chant!-The mighty is borne home-
And who shall be his mourners ?-Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic-love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each;
Yes-the free spirit of humanity

May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known :-from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the veil'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.-The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honor'd grave-the grave!-oh, say
Rather the shrine-An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn-a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift

From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend

High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus

The crown'd of men?

laid

A lowly, lowly song

Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!

hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,

From thee was sent :

Now call'st thou back thine own-
Hence is that radiance flown-

To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awc,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!

Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass'd!-the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,

On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite!

So from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
To thee, All Just!

The sword of many a fight—
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,

That rush'd on eagle wing-
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay

O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succoring power
Shall disavow;

When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down-
Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away-
Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save.
Father divine!

Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Keep us, in life and death,

Thine, only thine!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO .

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,

40*

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:-she lifted up

Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer-the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear!

Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!

Hear, Father! hear, and aid!

If I have loved too well, if I have shed
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.

If I have sought to live

But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,

Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chasten'd and school'd at last,

No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns-
What have I said ?-the deep dream is not past'

Yet hear!-if still I love,

Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,

An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.

If still a voice is near,

(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice, disquieting my soul

With its deep music, too intensely dear.

O Father! draw to thee

My lost affections back!-the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God!

This bosom must love on!-but let thy breath

Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven-love's own abode !

Ages and ages past, the wilderness,

With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,

With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,

That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odor, up to God!

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PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*
"From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the nighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."-Wordsworth.

SCENE-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the
Reign of Terror.

D'AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour,
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigne.

They send us home.
Blanche.

Yes, my poor child!

Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire Will the old hamlet spire,
And the grey turrent of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?-But how is this?-
Father, thy glance is clouded-on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigne.

Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian, who receives,

And recognises, in submissive awe,

The summons of his God.

Blanche.

No, no! it cannot be !-Didst thou not say

They sent us home?

D'Aubigne.

Thou dost not mean

Where is the spirit's home ?

Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,

Where should it be-but in that world serene,

Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power

Where, but in Heaven?

Blanche.

D'Aubigne.

My father!

We must die.

We must look up to God, and calmly die.

*The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung to gether in a low and restrained voice.

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

Come to my heart, and weep there!--for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!
Do I not know thee?-Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche ?

Blanche. (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child!-Hide, hide me in thine arms-
Father!

D'Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go-
Young, and so fair!-Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
Tre loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,

And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away.-For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rojoicing to depart.-The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully

Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.-Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,

To quit for ever the dishonor'd soil,

The burden'd air ?-Our God upon the cross

Our king upon the scaffold*-let us think

Of these and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

Blanche.

A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear honor'd head!

Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!-whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon !-Speak yet again-
Say, will they part us?

D'Aubigne.

No, my Blanche; in death

We shall not be divided.
Blanche.

Thanks to God!

He, by thy glance, will aid me--I shall see

His light before me to the last.-And when-
O pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!-
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aiubgne.

Oh! swiftly now,

And sudenly, with brief dread interval

Comes down the mortal stroke.-But of that hour

As yet I know not.-Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in

Eternity!

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Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand

*A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and her r ing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him :-My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross-your king upon the scaffold-and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man."