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But whatsoe'er had been his former pride,
He seem'd an humble and heart-broken man.
He thank'd me much for what I said was sent,
But well I knew his thanks were for my tears.
He look'd again upon the children's couch,
And said, (low down,) they wanted nothing now.
So, to turn off his eyes,

I drew the small survivor of the three

Before him; and he snatch'd it up, and soon
Seem'd quite forgetful and absorb'd. With that
I stole away.

TOM TAYLOR.

THE ROSE IN SUN.*

THE burials have been many,

The bridals have been few,

Beneath this roof wrought with the skill
Those old-world carvers knew;
Beneath whose hands the stubborn stone
To leaf and floweret grew.

Along the key-stones of the vault

The blazon'd 'scutcheons run,

And mid the shields of garter'd knights,

And kings, the foremost one

Bears gallant Edward's cognisance,

-The silver Rose in Sun.

*The Rose in Sun was the cognisance of King Edward IV. it is emblazoned on the roof of St. George's Chapel, Windsor.

:

Time was that badge with fancies
Of war and fear was fraught,
Of days when York and Lancaster
Beneath the Roses fought;
Of kingly lines contending,
Of realm by war distraught.

Henceforth St. George's Chapel,
Where that device it shows,
Speaks of a brighter sunlight
Upon a fairer rose-

Undimm'd by memories of strife,
Unstain'd by wars and woes.

A Rose in Sun we saw her,
While joy was o'er the land,
Beneath her veil of bridal white
Before the altar stand,
Her bridal nosegay trembling

With the trembling of her hand.

A northern rose, the sweeter
For memories of the sea,

By the side of which it blossom'd

With the keen winds blowing free

O'er the stern soil that rear'd it
Our Prince's flower to be.

Red rose and white seem mingled
On a 'scutcheon fair and fine,

In the blush her cheeks that mantled,
And in her brow's pure shine ;
And when the sunlight kiss'd her
We took it for a sign.

The light through storied windows
Rain'd azure, gules, and or,
About her face, upon her veil,
Among the flowers she bore;
Rain'd full upon the bridegroom,
And shimmer'd on the floor,-

Above a marble grave-stone,

The entrance to a tomb

Where kings and queens and princes
Lie in a narrow room,
All dust in dusty coffins,
Awaiting call of doom.

I thought of one who lately
Was lying coffin'd there,
Whose presence had made happy

Hearts now in mourning-wear;
Whose voice should have call'd blessings
Down on this wedded pair.

And following the sunbeam
That o'er the vault did play,

I saw where a shot-window
It lighten❜d with its ray,
And lit a watching widow's face
With sudden gleam of day.

Methought that blessed sunbeam
All in one light did fold
Fair bride and princely bridegroom,
Widow, and coffin'd mould;
These hearts that beat so warmly,

That heart that lies so cold.

Emblem and sign and omen

Of faith and hope in one,
Recording love that dies not
Because life's sand is run,-
A father's, husband's blessing,
From the heaven beyond the sun!

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH,

ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

PRAYER.

LORD, what a change within us one short hour,
Spent in Thy presence, will prevail to make !-
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,
What parched grounds refresh as with a shower!
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;
We rise, and all, the distant and the near,
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;
We kneel, how weak!-we rise, how full of power!
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others, that we are not always strong,
That we are ever overborne with care,
That we should ever weak or heartless be,
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,

And joy, and strength, and courage are with Thee?

SONNET.

WE live not in our moments or our years;
The Present we fling from us as the rind
Of some sweet Future, which we after find
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand, with our tears—
Vain tears for that which never may arrive :
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded disappears.

Wiser it were to welcome and make ours

Whate'er of good, though small, the Present brings,—
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,
With a child's pure delight in little things;
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,
Knowing that mercy ever will endure.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

SPRING.

THE spring is here-the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers:

And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours;

A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

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