Obrazy na stronie

Go thou and seek the house of prayer !
I to the woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes
And hear all nature's melodies.
The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense!
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Will with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer !
I to the woodlands wend my way

And meet religion there,
She needs not the high arch'd dome to pray,
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day;

At liberty she loves to rove,
Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip dale ;

Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.
Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the night
Pours in the north her silver streams of light,
She woos reflection in the silent gloom,
And ponders on the world to come.


I may not scorn the meanest thing

That on the earth doth crawl,
The slave who dares not burst his chain,

The tyrant in his hall.
The vile oppressor who hath made

The widow'd mother mourn,
Though worthless, soulless he may stand,

I cannot, dare not, scorn.
The darkest night that shrouds the sky

Of beauty bath a share;
The blackest heart hath signs to tell

That God still lingers there.

I pity all that evil are

I pity and I mourn;
But the Supreme hath fashion'd all

And, oh! I dare not scorn.


The ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well ;

But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell-
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seem'd his who fell
In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now. But he spoke to reassure me,

And he kiss'd my pallid brow, While a reverie came o'er me, And to the churchyard bore me, And I sigh'd to him before me, Thinking him dead D'Elormie,

“Oh, I am happy now!”
And thus the words were spoken,

And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token

That proves me happy now!
Would God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,
Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now.


A fine passage in Professor Arnold's epic entitled Balder.

When the gods heard, they straight arose, and took
Their horses, and rode forth through all the world,
North, south, east, west, they struck and roam'd the world,
Entreating all things to weep Balder's death :
And all that lived, and all without life, wept,
And as in winter, when the frost breaks up,
At winter's end, before the spring begins,
And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in-
After an bour a dripping sound is heard,
In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow
Under the trees is dibbled thick with hole,
And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down ;
And in fields, sloping to the south, dark plots
Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow,
And widen, and the peasant's heart is glad
So through the world was heard a dripping noise
Of all things weeping to bring Balder back;
And there fell joy upon the gods to hear.


By William Knox.
Thou askest what hath changed my heart,

And where hath fled my youthful folly ?
I tell thee Tamar's virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.

Her eye-as soft and blue as even

When day and night are calmly meeting.
Beams on my heart like light from heaven,

And purifies its beating.

The accents fall from Tamar's lip,

Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping,
When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

And cannot cease their sipping.

The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,

For ever coming, ever going,
May well the spotless fount bespeak

That sets the stream a-flowing.
Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast,

E'en like the harpstring's holiest measures,
When dreams the soul of lands of rest

And everlasting pleasures.
Then ask not what hath changed my heart, .

Or where hath fled my youthful folly ?
I tell thee Tamar's virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.


The following lines appeared in The Times newspaper, under the signature R. C. T. Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy

waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, roll them proudly to the

sea. Yesterday unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar

known, Now thou art a voice for ever to the world's four corners

blown. In two nations' annals written, thou art now a deathless

name, And a star for ever shining in their firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower,

and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, has no potency like thine; Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living

head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the

dead; Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly

mourning, sayWhen the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself


“ He has passed from us, the loved one : but he sleeps with

them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as

those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero beds

repose, Thou, on England's banner blazoned, with the famous fields

of old, Shalt where other fields are winning, wave above the brave

and bold : And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed

to be done By that twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights

were won. Oh! thou river, dear for ever to the gallant, to the free, Alma, roll thy waters proudly, roll them proudly to the sea.


Now whilst he dreams, O Muses, wind him round !

Send down thy silver words, O murmuring Rain !
Haunt him, sweet Music! Fall, with gentlest sound, -

Like dew, like night, upon his weary brain !
Come, Odours of the rose and violet,-bear
Into his charmed sleep all visions fair!
So may the lost be found,
So may his thoughts by tender Love be crowned,
And Hope come shining like a vernal morn,
And with its beams adorn,
The Future, till he breathes diviner air,
In some soft Heaven of joy, beyond the range of Care!

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