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Nor would I like to spread
My thin and wither'd face
In hortus siccus, pale and dead,
A mummy of my race.

No,

on the wings of air
Might I be left to fly,

I know not and I heed not where -
A waif of earth and sky!

Or flung upon the stream,
Curl'd like a fairy boat,

As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end to float!

Who that hath ever been,

Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene,
He trod through life before?

On, with intense desire,

Man's spirit will move on;

It seems to die, yet, like heaven's fire,

It is not quench'd, but gone.

J. MONTGOMERY.

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION.

OH! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow,

touch'd by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day!

MOORE.

THE FUNERAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

AT CAEN IN NORMANDY, 1087.1

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The Conqueror was buried in the church of St. Stephen, which he had built, but his funeral was singularly interrupted. At the moment that the coffin was being lowered into the grave, a man of low degree, raising himself from the crowd, exclaimed, "Clerks, Bishops, this land is mine; it was the site of my father's house; the man for whom you pray took it from me by force to build his church. I have not sold my ground, I have not pawned it, I have not given it; it is my right, and I claim it. In the name of Heaven, I forbid that the body of the spoiler be placed there, and that it be covered by my

Down the long minster's aisle
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd,
Altar and tomb the while

Through mists of incense gleam'd.

And by the torches' blaze
The stately priest had said.
High words of power and praise
To the glory of the dead.

They lower'd him, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:

"Forbear! forbear!" it cried;
"In the holiest name, forbear!
He hath conquer'd regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there!

"By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine;
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;

"By the house e'en here o'erthrown,
On my brethren's native spot;
Hence with his dark renown

Cumber our birth-place not!

glebe." The man who spoke was named Asselin, and all the bystanders confirmed the truth of his assertions. The Bishops made him approach, and agreed to pay him sixty sous for the place of sepulture alone, and to compensate him justly for the rest of the ground.-THIERRY'S Hist. of the Conquest of England by the Normans.

"Will my sire's unransom'd field, O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield

Soft slumbers in the grave.

"The tree before him fell

Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier.

"The land that I have till'd

Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes fill'd, And it shall not give him rest!

"Each pillar's massy bed

Hath he wet by weeping eyesAway! bestow your dead

Where no wrong against him cries."

Shame glow'd on each dark face

Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader's dust e'en then.

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim The name, a nation's star!

One deep voice thus arose

From a heart which wrongs had riven;

Oh! who shall number those

That were but heard in Heaven?

MRS. HEMANS.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measur'd the height of heaven above?
Then may'st thou mete a mother's love!

Hast thou talk'd with the bless'd, of leading on
To the throne of God some wand'ring son?
Hast thou witness'd the angels' bright employ?
Then may'st thou speak of a mother's joy!

Evening and morn hast thou watch'd the bee,
Go forth on her errands of industry?
The bee for herself hath gather'd and toil'd;
But a mother's cares are all for her child:

Hast thou gone with the traveller, Thought, afar,
From pole to pole, and from star to star?

Thou hast but in ocean, earth, or sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.

And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book;

To win them back from the lore they prize
To the holier love that edifies.

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There are teachings in earth, in sky, and air
The heavens the glory of God declare;
But louder than voice beneath - above,
He is heard to speak in a mother's love!

MISS EMILY TAYLOR.

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