No death-strewn fields his honours stain; No painted badge, no tinsel star, Truth's light stands in his eyes confest: This brave, high homage, spirit-paid, Shall shrine the worth of woman too, Fitly entitling wife and maid, "The Meek, ""The Tender," or "The True, " And she whose brow small beauty wears May yet well grace the name she bears. Is this a dream? No!-by the past, With its dense darkness-pierced at length,- A LAMENT. T. K. HERVEY is one of the most graceful of our living poets. His works, which are not numerous, without any pretensions to power or sublimity, are almost always beautiful, and cannot fail to please readers of refined taste. The following stanzas are extracted from a poem of his entitled The Brazen Head. There is a great deal of pathos in them. SHE sleeps that still and placid sleep Oh! never more upon her grave They laid her where the sun and moon Look on her tomb with loving eye; And I have heard the breeze of June And I have dreamt, in many dreams, 'Tis years ago!—and other eyes Have flung their beauty o'er my youth; And I have hung on other sighs, And sounds that seem'd like truth; And I have left the cold and dead, Age sits upon my breast and brain, Rise, gentle vision of the hours Which go, like birds that come not back! And fling thy pale and funeral flowers Oh! for the wings that made thee blest, A PAGAN'S DRINKING SONG. This singularly original lyric is taken from a volume of poems called Studies of Sensation and Event by EBENEZER JONES. It is full of the spirit of the olden time, when poetry was more an emotion than an art. LIKE the bright white arm of a young god, thrown The torrent leaps on the kegs of stone That held this wine in the dark gulf down; Deep fathoms five it lay in the cold,— The afternoon summer heats heavily weigh: This wine is awaiting in flagons of gold, On the side of the hill that looks over the bay. There a bower of vines for each one bends, Where, shut from the presence of foes or friends, The sunshine slants past the dark green cave; In the sunshine the galleys before him will drowse; No restless womanhood frets the bower, And his yearning limbs, and his sultry mouth, Will recall to the drinker his own youth's prime, When there seem'd crowding round him from east, west, and south, Countless beautiful beings with capturing mime; And nothing will witness the sigh or the tear A CALM AFTER A STORM. A beautiful passage from MOORE's Lalla Rookh. How calm, how beautiful comes on When 'stead of one unchanging breeze, ENGLISH CHURCHES. The "too early lost" Miss LANDON left as a legacy to the world a portfolio of unpublished poems, one of which is the following, touching and beautiful : How beautiful they stand, Those ancient altars of our native land! Amid the pasture fields and dark green woods, By little brooks that, with a lapsing sound, Those old grey churches of our native land! Our lives are all turmoil; Our souls are in a weary strife and toil, Grasping and straining-tasking nerve and brain, Both day and night, for gain! We have grown worldly-have made gold our godHave turned our hearts away from lowly things; We seek not now the wild flower on the sod; We seek not snowy-folded angel's wings Amid the summer skies For visions come not to polluted eyes! Yet, blessed quiet fanes! Still piety, still poetry remains, And shall remain, whilst ever on the air One chapel-bell calls high and low to prayer,- To set within our hearts sweet thoughts and holy! And 'tis for this they stand, The old grey churches of our native land! In the great city's heart, They stand; and chantry dim, and organ sound, Like to the righteous ten which were not found Meek faith and love sincere Better in time of need than shield and spear ! |