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Not one of Flora's brilliant race
Art could not feign more simple grace,
Yet, rich as morn of many a hue,
When flushing clouds through darkness strike, The tulip's petals shine in dew,
All beautiful, but none alike.
Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe
And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,
Here could I stand and moralise;
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.*
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts † were gleaming in purple and
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
* 2 Kings, xix. 35.
A legion was divided into ten cohorts.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, And through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur* are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
THE AUTUMN EVENING.
BEHOLD the western evening-light!
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
Assyria, from Ashur, who built Nineveh.-Genesis, x. 11.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
'Tis like the memory left behind,
And now, above the dews of night,
So faith springs in the heart of those
But soon the morning's happier light
And eyelids that are seal'd in death
THE LAST MINSTREL.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.
SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
To spread large bounties though we wish in vain, Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain:
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth, With rank to grace them, or to crown with health, Our little lot denies; yet liberal still,
Heaven gives its counterpoise to every
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers,
To all her sons, impartial, she decrees;
Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
And he whose helpful tenderness removes
But clears th' obstruction which impedes his own.
THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION.
I PRAIS'D the earth, in beauty seen