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The world it is empty, the heart will die,
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky;
Thou Holy One, call thy child away!
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day-
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.

LINES.

SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS OB. ANNO DOM. 1088.

No

O more 'twixt conscience staggering and the
Pope,

Soon shall I now before my God appear,
By him to be acquitted, as I hope;

By him to be condemned, as I fear.

REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE.

Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,

Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said : I see a hope spring from that humble fear.

All are not strong alike through storms to steer Right onward. What? though dread of threatened

death

And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?

That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice.

didst start,

Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,

Or not so vital as to claim thy life;

And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!

Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own,
Judge him who won them when he stood alone,
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare―
O first the age, and then the man compare!
That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!
No throbbing hearts awaited his return!
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,
He only disenchanted from the spell,

Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey?

The ascending day-star with a bolder eye
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry
The spots and struggles of the timid dawn;
Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn
The mists and painted vapors of our morn.

SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND, FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF BUTLER'S BOOK OF THE CHURCH.

POET.

I

NOTE the moods and feelings men betray,
And heed them more than aught they do or say;
The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed
Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ;
These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed!
These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth!

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made up of impudence and trick,
With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick,
Rome's brazen serpent-boldly dares discuss
The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!
And with grim triumph and a truculent glee
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,
That made an empire's plighted faith a lie,
And fixed a broad stare on the Devil's
eye-
(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart
To stand outmastered in his own black art!)
Yet

FRIEND.

Enough of! we're agreed,

Who now defends would then have done the deed.
But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway,
Who but must meet the proffered hand half way
When courteous

POET. (Aside.)

(Rome's smooth go-between !)

FRIEND.

Laments the advice that soured a milky queen—
(For "bloody" all enlightened men confess
An antiquated error of the press ;)

Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds,
With actual cautery staunched the church's wounds.
And tho' he deems that with too broad a blur
We damn the French and Irish massacre,

Yet blames them both-and thinks the Pope might err !

What think you now? Boots it with spear and shield Against such gentle foes to take the field

Whose beck'ning hands the mild Caduceus wield?

POET.

What think I now? Ev'n what I thought before ;-
What boasts tho' may deplore,

Still I repeat, words lead me not astray
When the shown feeling points a different way.
Snooth-
can say grace at slander's feast,
And bless each haut-gout cooked by monk or priest;
Leaves the full lie on -'s gong to swell,
Content with half-truths that do just as well;
But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks,
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks!

So much for you, my Friend! who own a Church,
And would not leave your mother in the lurch!
But when a Liberal asks me what I think--
Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink.
And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam,
In search of some safe parable I roam

An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome!
Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood,
I see a tiger lapping kitten's food :

And who shall blame him that he purrs applause,
When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause;
And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his
claws!

Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt,
I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws
More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt,
Impearling a tame wild-cat's whiskered jaws!

27*

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!
Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green

willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and summer well agree; And lo! where Mary leans her head, Two dear names carved upon the tree! And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow; Our sister and our friend will both be here to

morrow.

'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark warm night.

The balmiest of the month of June.!

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Asra, love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast,
This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me!

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all ! And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:

I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

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