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Jeremiah xix.; xxxiii.

FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel !
Silence is on thy plains.
Thy dwellings all lie desolate;
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore ?
That fire from heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more !

Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem !
Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne.
Till evil came and blighted
Thy long-loved olive tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted
To other gods than thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma ;
Then passed her glory's day :
Like heath that in the wilderness
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those mighty towers
Where Baal reigned as god.

“Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors !
Steep in her blood your swords ;
And raze to earth her battlements,
For they are not the Lord's ;

Tell Zion's mournful daughter,
O'er kindred bones she'll tread ;
And Hinnom's hall of slaughter
Shall hide but half her dead."

But soon shall other pictured scenes
In brighter vision rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine
O'er all her mourners' eyes :
And on her mountains beauteous stand
The messengers of peace :

Salvation by the Lord's right hand !"
They shout, and never cease.




-And the muffled drum rollid on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there ;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground :
Solemn the sound of their measur'd tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier ;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a Soldier's Funeral.-

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain ; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand; 'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said ! But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, And to lay his bones on his own lov'd shore; To think that the friends of his youth might weep O’er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep!

The bugles ceas'd their wailing sound
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground ;
A volley was fir'd, a blessing said,
One moment's pause,—and they left the dead !
I saw a poor and an aged man,
His step was feeble, his lip was wan :
He knelt him down on the new rais'd mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground ;
He rais'd his head, his tears were done,-
The Father had pray'd o'er his only Son!



The stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand !
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them, with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry

homes of England !
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light !
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The cottage homes of England !

By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

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The free, fair homes of England !

Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reard

To guard each hallow'd wall !

for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.





BENEATH these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf, in many a mouldering heap;
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed ;
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn-
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure :
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour :
The paths of glory lead—but to the grave.

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