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Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Beneath thee strew'd,
What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne ?
Before thee stand
The wondrous band
Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Back from the tomb
No step has come;
THE OLD SOLDIER.
The night comes on apace; Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in
A house to screen them from the piercing cold!
country. With tottering steps he gains the cottage door: The wife within, who hears his hollow cough, And pattering of his stick upon the threshold, Sends out her little boy to see who's there. The child looks up to mark the stranger's face, And seeing it enlighten'd with a smile, Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in. Round from her work the mother turns her head, And views them, not ill pleased. The stranger whines not with a piteous tale, But only asks a little to relieve A
poor old soldier's wants. The gentle matron brings the ready chair And bids him sit to rest his
weary limbs, And warm himself before her blazing fire. The children, full of curiosity, Flock round, and with their fingers in their
mouths, Stand staring at him; while the stranger, pleas’d, Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee. Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet, And prates and laughs, and plays with his white
locks. But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face ; His thoughtful mind is turn’d on other days, When his own boys were wont to play around him,
Who now lie distant from their native land
MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF
ST. MATTHEW, XVII. 4.
METHINKS it is good to be here,
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For see, they would pin him below In a dark narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a rey.
To Beauty ? Ah no! she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ?
Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the
To Riches ? alas! 'tis in vain,
The treasures are squander'd again ;
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board ! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Should we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,
Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Peace! peace! is the watchword, the only one Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we would build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill’d; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies.
THE WINTER STORM.
VIEW now the Winter storm! above, one cloud,
All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,