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I ask not for his name:
He noble birth may claim.
But slender be his part,
“ Hath he a true man's heart ?” I ask not from what land he came,
Nor where his youth was nursed: If
pure the stream, it matters not The spot from whence it burst.
The palace or the hovel,
Where first his life began,
“ Is he an honest man?"
Where first he drew his breath?
Of Him of Nazareth!
I care not what you be
Art thou pure, true, and free?"
THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,
So sweetly and so cool.
The primrose hides below,
A modest glance doth throw.
I meet it everywhere:
It comes and nestles there.
In glory it doth fall,
It straightway hallows all.
Who gaze its sweetness on.
We meet thee near and far,
As things familiar are.
We have been sad together,
We have wept with bitter tears
The hopes of early years.
Would bid thee clear thy brow:
-Hon. Mrs. Norton. ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.
ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.
Walking in health and gladness,
Not a single look of sadness.
Blithely the birds were singing,
And the bells were merrily ringing.
When not a word was spoken-
And the silence by sobs was broken.
To the muffled drums' deep rolling,
Drowned the death-bell's tolling.
To the grave till I saw him carried,
But to him a night unvaried.
And a son's sole child have perished ;
By which they were fondest cherished.
And he sat in his age's lateness,
Of the frailty of human greatness.
Unvexed by life's commotion,
On the calm of a frozen ocean.
Though the stream of life kept flowing ; When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say The old man's strength was going.