And a burning flood of gem-like hues A flood of hues!—but one rich dye Mantling the mighty dead. Meet was that robe for him whose name Was as a trumpet note in war, His pathway still the march of fame, His eye the battle star. But faintly, tenderly was thrown From the colour'd light one ray, Where a low and pale memorial stone Few were the fond words chisell❜d there, Mourning for parted worth; But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth. They spoke of one whose life had been Whose young pure memory, lying deep 'Midst rock, and wood, and hill, Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,' A soft light meek and still: Whose gentle voice too early call'd Unto Music's land away, Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd, These were his victories-yet enroll'd Left but to Heaven his name. To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth, A blessed household sound And finding lowly love on earth, Bright and more bright before me gleam'd Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd From those proud trophies nigh; How my full heart within me burn'd 1 Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie. Wordsworth. THE COTTAGE GIRL. A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play, What but the spirit of the joyous child, THE BATTLE-FIELD. I LOOK'D on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray. I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood, I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood. Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd, I look'd on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl-drops of dew. But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host, As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed! Where now were the thunders of victory's boastThe slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed? Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone, Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died! Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot; A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot! A PENITENT'S RETURN. Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim, The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile, And wins him o'er to virtue. Wilson. My father's house once more, Is it the brooding night, Is it the shivery creeping on the air, All solemnized it seems, And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, And this high elm, where last I stood and linger'd-where my sisters made How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those grey locks are gone! |