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THE HUSK AND THE GRAIN.
Found in a number of Hood's Magazine, where it appeared
WEEP! woman, weep! drop thy tears of agony,
He whom thou mournest, lieth dead and cold ; Heave! woman, heave! the sigh that never cooleth,
Born of the misery that never waxeth old.
He, who at morning cheer'd and sustain’d thee,
With sweet words and tender, tender and sweet, 'Till earth, with her troubles, look'd fairer than heaven,
Lies with the worms there-under thy feet.
Crawling, they suck the lips that gave thee pleasure;
Cruelly they pierce the eyes of love and light: Feast on the neck on which thou lay'st enraptured,
Sweetly entranced through all the hours of night.
Rigid is the tongue on which thy soul linger'd;
Livid is the hand, once how delicate and fair; Pulseless the heart; and colder than the damp-drops
Eating the gold in his bright yellow hair.
Weep! woman, weep ! drop thy tears of agony,
He whom thou mournest lieth dead and cold ! Heave! woman, heave! the sigh that never cooleth,
Born of the misery that never waxeth old.
Hush! widow, hush ! stay thy tears of agony,
He whom thou mournest never touch'd the sod; Raise ! widow, raise! the eye of faith and gladness,
Behold, thou poor heart, the gentleness of God!
He, who at evening, sitting beside thee,
Open'd the Book of wisdom and of love, Soothingly enjoin'd thee to lean upon its promises,
Trusts to thee now in a calmer world above.
Brighter than stars is the light that pervades him,
Sweeter than perfume his free and happy breath, Purer than chastity the thoughts that engage him,
Loosen'd from the earth by the iron hand of death.
Angels have ask'd to be his dear companion,
Still thou must have his watchfulness and care,
Hovering about thee-a Spirit of the Air!
THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY.
By GERALD MASSEY.
There lives a voice within me, a guest-angel of my heart, And its sweet lispings win me, till the tears a-trembling
start; Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody, And evermore it singeth this sweet song of songs to me This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And if we did our duty, it might be full of love. Night's starry tendernesses dower with glory evermore, · Morn's budding, bright, melodious hour comes sweetly as of
yore; But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sun
bursts shine, And there be million hearts athirst for Love's immortal
wine. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love.
If faith, and hope, and kindness pass'd, as coin, 'twixt heart
and heart, How, thro’ the eye's tear-blindness, should the sudden soul
upstart! The dreary, dim, and desolate, should wear a sunny bloom, And Love should spring from buried Hate, like flowers o'er
Were truth our uttered language, Angels might talk with
men, And God-illumined earth should see the Golden Age
again; The burthen'd heart should soar in Mirth like Morn's young
prophet-lark, And Misery's last tear wept on earth, quench Hell's last
cunning spark. For this world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love.
Lo! plenty ripens round us, yet awakes the cry for bread,
for gold ! What noble hearts are sapp'd of love! what spirits lose life's
hold! Yet a merry world it might be, opulent for all, and aye, i With its lands that asks for labour, and its wealth that wastes
away. This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above; And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flow'r-lips of the
sodThe happy Birds that hymn their raptures in the ear of 1
THE DEATH OF THE POET.
WHEN on the threshold of the green recess
Even as a vapour fed with golden beams
O, for Medea's wondrous alchymy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! O, that God, Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, who now, Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels No proud exemption in the blighting curse He bears, over the world wanders for ever, Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the dream Of dark magician in his visioned cave, Raking the cinders of a crucible For life and power, even when his feeble hand Shakes in its last decay, were the true law Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams,-ah! thou hast fled ! The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius. Heartless things Are done and said i' the world, and many worms And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth From sea and mountain, city and wilderness, In vesper low or joyous orison, Lifts still its solemn voice :--but thou art fledThou canst no longer know or love the shapes Of this phantasmal scene who have to thee Been purest ministers, who are, alas! Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes That image sleep in death, upon that form Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear Be shed—not even in thought. Nor, when those hues Are gone, and those divinest lineaments,