So breathing and so beautiful they seem
As if to die in youth were to dream
Of spring and flowers !-of flowers? yet nearer stand,—
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,
As if its cup with tears was wet!
So sleeps that child,—not faded, though in death;
And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,
As when she first did lay her head to rest
Gently on that sister's breast,
And kiss'd her ere she fell asleep!
Th' archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.
"Take up those flowers that fell
From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!
Your spirits rest in bliss !—
Yet ere with parting prayers we say
Farewell for ever! to the insensate clay,
Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!"
Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who has wrought This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,— Thine, Chantrey, be the fame
That joins to immortality thy name.
For these sweet children that so sculptured rest,- A sister's head upon a sister's breast,—
Age after age shall pass away,
Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay:
For here is no corruption,-the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form: This smile of death that fades not, shall engage The deep affections of each distant age! Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent, Shall gaze with tears upon the monument! And fathers sigh, with half suspended breath, “How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!"
RESTORATION OF MALMESBURY ABBEY.
MONASTIC and time-consecrated fane! Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, Almost august, as in thy early day, Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away. No more the mass on holidays is sung, The host high-raised, or fuming censer swung; No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow, With lighted tapers, in long order go;- Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, As to admit heaven's pale but purer light; Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows, E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose Amid the silent sanctity of death,
Like giants, seem to guard the dust beneath : Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise; Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile, Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile,- Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains? Oh, mightiest Master! thy immortal strains These roofs demand. Listen,-with prelude slow, Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow. And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chaunt Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant? More softly now, imploring litanies, Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs Of penitence, from yon high altar rise: Again the vaulted roof "Hosannah" rings— "Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!" Rent, but not prostrate,-stricken, yet sublime, Reckless alike of injuries or time;
Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy! The temple of our Sion so shall mock
The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock, Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!
COME, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace Visit my humble dwelling, welcomed in, Not with loud shouts, and the throng'd city's din, But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe, The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude Heard indistinctly from the village green, The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row scene, Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd, Το pay him for his farewell song,—all these Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please The stilly-stirring fancies,-though my hours (For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs) Pass lonely oft,—and oft my heart is sad ; Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes around, And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound, That seems to say, "Forget the transient tear Thy pale youth shed,-repose and peace are here."
FAIR moon! that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December, through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine, Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall Sombrous and strange upon the dark'ning wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deep'ning night! Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze I think-around me in this twilight room- I but remark mortality's sad gloom;
Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere!
O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away; On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile, As some lone bird, at day's departing hour Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :- Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood, Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all this heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part; But, if like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide- The world his country, and his God his guide.
As one, who, by long wasting sickness worn, Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard, Heartless the carol of the matin bird
Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head,
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