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That crowd the earth, within the humble soul
Have place and order due; because there dwells
In the inner temple of the holy heart
The presence of the spirit form above:
There are his tabernacles; there his rites
Want not their due performance, nor sweet strains
Of heavenly music, nor a daily throng
Of worshippers, both those who minister
In service fix'd-the mighty principles
And leading governors of thought; and those
Who come and go, the troop of fleeting joys-
All hopes, all sorrows, all that enter in
Through every broad receptacle of sense.


STAND up before your God

You army bold and bright,

Saints, martyrs, and confessors,
In your robes of white;

The church below doth challenge you
To an act of praise;

Ready with mirth in all the earth

Her matin song to raise.

Stand up before your God

In beautiful array,

Make ready all your instruments
The while we mourn and pray;
For we must stay to mourn and pray
Some prelude to our song;
The fear of death has clogg'd our breath
And our foes are swift and strong.

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I KNOW not how the right may be :But I give thanks whene'er I see Down in the green slopes of the West Old Glastonbury's tower'd crest,

I know not how the right may be :-
But I have oft had joy to see,
By play of chance, my road beside,
The cross on which the Saviour died.
I know not how the right may be :-
But I loved once a tall elm tree,
Because between its boughs on high
That cross was open'd in the sky.
I know not how the right may be :-
But I have shed strange tears to see,
Passing an unknown town at night,
In some warm chambers full of light,
A mother and two children fair
Kneeling with lifted hands at prayer.
I know not how it is-my boast
Of Reason seems to dwindle down;
And my mind seems down-argued most
By freed conclusions not her own.

I know not how it is-unless
Weakness and strength are near allied;
And joys which most the spirit bless
Are farthest off from earthly pride.


ELIZA COOK has been a frequent contributor to the English literary periodicals for several years, and her productions have been very generally reprinted in the gazettes of this country, so that her name is nearly as familiar to American readers as those of Mrs. HEMANS and Mrs. NORTON. Her poems are of that class which is most sure to win the popular favour. They have a social character, and portray with simplicity and truth, the kindly


KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl,
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear:
He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain. [gone.
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"

The sire was robb'd of his eldest born,

And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn :
Other scions were round, as good and fair,
But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir.


My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry; "Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die." The valued friend was snatch'd away, Bound to another from childhood's day; And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair, "Oh! he sleeps in the tomb-let me follow him there!"

A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone:
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of wo,
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light,
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Breathing where none might hear or see-
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be."
Death smiled as he heard each earnest word:


Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferr'd;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,
And, if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then thou shalt share the rest

Of the being now pluck'd from thy doating breast;
Then, if thou cravest the coffin and pall
As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall."
And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.

affections. They are free, spirited, animated by a generous, joyous feeling, yet feminine, quiet, tranquillizing.

Miss Cook is now about twenty-five years of age. She resides in London. The largest collection of her writings, " Melaia, and other Poems," was published by Tilt, in 1840, and has been reprinted in the present year, by Langley, of New York, in a very elegant edition.

But the lover was ardently wooing again, Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain; He had found an idol to adore,

Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before:
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,

As he led the way for the bridal crowd;
And his eyes still kept their joyous ray, [lay.
Though he went by the grave where his first love
"Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear
That I am a guest not wanted here!"
The father was seen in his children's games,
Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names!
And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms:
His voice rung out in the merry noise,
He was first in all their hopes and joys;
He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart.
"Nay! nay!" shriek'd the father; "in mercy

The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherish'd with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger press'd;
He praised his song, he echo'd his jest ;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"
But the orphan child! Oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the churchyard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unheal'd still;
And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.
Hers was the love all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;

2 T


Hers was the spirit whose light was shed As an incense fire above the dead.

Death linger'd there, and paused awhile;
But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find,
But a mother leaves no equal behind."
And the kindest blow Death ever gave
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.


WHом do we crown with the laurel leaf?
The hero god, the soldier chief,

But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel,

Of the flying shot and the reeking steel,

Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes,
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes :
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath,
Pluck'd from the gory field of death?

Whom do we crown with summer flowers?
The young and fair in their happiest hours.
But the buds will only live in the light
Of a festive day or a glittering night;
We know the vermil tints will fade-
That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid:
And who can prize the coronal
That's form'd to dazzle, wither and fall?

Who wears the cypress, dark and drear?
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear :
The gloomy branch for ever twines
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines.
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart,
That hath seen its dearest hopes depart.
Oh, who can like the chaplet band
That is wove by melancholy's hand?

Where is the ivy circlet found?

On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd
In the purple stream-who drinks and laughs
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs.
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown,
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down;
But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl
It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul

But there's a green and fragrant leaf
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief:
"Tis the purest amaranth springing below,
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow:
It is not the right of the monarch or lord,
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword;
For the lowliest temples gather a ray
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay.

Oh, beautiful bay! I worship thee-
I homage thy wreath-I cherish thy tree;
And of all the chaplets fame may deal,
"Tis only to this one I would kneel:
For as Indians fly to the banian branch,
When tempests lower and thunders launch,
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life.


HE led her to the altar,

But the bride was not his chosen : He led her, with a hand as cold

As though its pulse had frozen. Flowers were crush'd beneath his tread,

A gilded dome was o'er him;

But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale, As the marble steps before him.

His soul was sadly dreaming

Of one he had hoped to cherish;

Of a name and form that the sacred rites, Beginning, told must perish.

He gazed not on the stars and gems

Of those who circled round him; But trembled as his lips gave forth

The words that falsely bound him.

Many a voice was praising,

Many a hand was proffer'd; But mournfully he turn'd him

From the greeting that was offer'd. Despair had fix'd upon his brow

Its deepest, saddest token; And the bloodless cheek, the stifled sigh, Betray'd his heart was broken.


DEAR Kate, I do not swear and rave,

Or sigh sweet things as many can; But though my lip ne'er plays the slave, My heart will not disgrace the man. I prize thee-ay, my bonnie Kate,

So firmly fond this breast can be, That I would brook the sternest fate If it but left me health and thee.

I do not promise that our life

Shall know no shade on heart or brow; For human lot and mortal strife

Would mock the falsehood of such vow. But when the clouds of pain and care

Shall teach us we are not divine, My deepest sorrows thou shalt share, And I will strive to lighten thine. We love each other, yet perchance

The murmurs of dissent may rise;
Fierce words may chase the tender glance,
And angry flashes light our eyes.
But we must learn to check the frown,
To reason rather than to blame;
The wisest have their faults to own,

And you and I, girl, have the same.
You must not like me less, my Kate,
For such an honest strain as this;
I love thee dearly, but I hate

The puling rhymes of "kiss” and “bliss.” There's truth in all I've said or sung;

I woo thee as a man should woo; And though I lack a honey'd tongue, Thou 'It never find a breast more true.

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The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave,
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave;
And the one whose lot is the desert spot
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot.
The thrall and state at the palace gate
Are what my spirit has learnt to hate:
Oh! the hills shall be a home for me,
For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free.

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Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there,


Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask

"Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!" There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter song,

Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep; "Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul

and ear;

Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep. There in the summer days rest the bright flashing rays,

There spring the wild-flowers-fair as can be:
Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip bell,

These be the grave-flowers chosen by me.

There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptured


Few will regret when my spirit departs; And I loathe the vain charnel fame, praising an empty name,

Dear, after all, but to two or three hearts.

Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph,
Painting man spotless and pure as the dove?
If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth,
All that I heed is its record above.

"Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still,

Where my young footsteps climb'd happy and

Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf,
There be the sleeping-place chosen by me.

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