Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art king!
Empires at thy footstool lie!
Beneath thee strew'd,

Their multitude

Sink, like waves upon the shore;
Storms shall never rouse them more.

What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne?
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,

To thy kingdom all have gone.
Before thee stand

The wondrous band

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darken'd nations when they died!

Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on;
Back from the tomb

No step has come;

There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound.

CROLY.

THE OLD SOLDIER.

THE night comes on apace;

Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in

wreaths;

Now every creature looks around for shelter;

And whether man or beast, all move alike

Towards their homes, and happy they who have

A house to screen them from the piercing cold!
Lo! o'er the frost a reverend form advances,
His hair white as the snow on which he treads,
His forehead mark'd with many a

furrow,

Whose feeble body, bending o'er a staff,

care-worn

Shows still that once it was the seat of strength,
Though now it shakes like some old ruin'd tower.
Clothed indeed, but not disgrac'd, with rags,
He still maintains that decent dignity

Which well becomes those who have serv'd their 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
In honourable but untimely graves;

He feels how helpless and forlorn he is,

And big, round tears course down his wither'd cheeks.

His toilsome daily labour at an end,

In comes the wearied master of the house,
And marks with satisfaction his old guest

In the chief seat, with all the children round him;
His honest heart is fill'd with manly kindness,
He bids him stay and share their homely meal,
And take with them his quarters for the night.
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts,
And by the simple hospitable board
Forgets the by-past hardships of the day.

MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

ST. MATTHEW, XVII. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build

but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

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 prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it

wore.

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 shroud.

To Riches? alas! 'tis in vain,

Who hid, in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squander'd again;

And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.

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 here.

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.

KNOWLES.

THE WINTER STORM.

VIEW now the Winter storm! above, one cloud,
Bleak and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud;
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid, and sometimes show'd his form,
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.

All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising; all the deep

Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,
Breaking and sinking; and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells;
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;

May watch the mightiest, till the shoal they reach,
Then break, and hurry to their utmost stretch;
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then reflowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which, ages past,
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.