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CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM.

A fine passage in CowPER's Task

PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic Muse,

Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and t' immortalise her trust:
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,
To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time ensure, to his loved land
The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim,
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.

Yet few remember them. They lived unknown,
Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame,

And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed,
The tyranny, that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.

withes.

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own.

His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say-" My Father made them all."

THE SPRING-TIME.

This is inserted here at the request of some readers who say that it will not be quite out of place in the collection. Of that the author is not a competent judge; and perhaps the partiality of friends may have deceived them. If so, he prays pardon for the page he has deformed. It is by the EDITOR of "BEAUTIFUL POETRY," and was published many years ago in one of the "Annuals," The Amulet. It is necessary to state that it was written and printed before Tennyson's "If you're waking call me early."

O TAKE me from this close dark room-from this uneasy bed,

The clothes so grey and shroud-like lie upon my breast like

lead;

The ancient ebon wardrobe, and the picture on the wall, And the ticking of the watch, mother, I'm weary of them all.

O! take me where the glad free air may visit me again, And the rich evening sunray soothe the sullen throb of pain, Where I may see the grass and hear the robin on the bough, And feel the breath of the early Spring upon my cheek and

brow.

Then bear me from this dreary room, where everything I see Recalls some hour of anguish or some dream of agony, When you have bent above me, mother, and listen'd to my

moan,

And felt the pangs of your dying child more keenly than your own.

There, lay me on that primrose bank-it was my fav'rite

seat;

I planted it and water'd it-how clean it was and neat: The flowers are all neglected now -the weeds have grown so fast,

I little thought that happy, happy summer was my last.

How delicate the air is—all the flowers are coming out, The glad spring-flowers to fling their stores of sweetness round about,

The bee is on the wing, the merry swallow sweeps the sky, The gnat hums in the sunbeam, mother, all things are glad but I.

Last spring I was so happy; the linnet on the bough,
The wild bee, was not half so gay;-and I am dying now.
I crown'd me with the May blooms then, I revell'd in the
flowers,

And only by the joys they knew counted the passing hours.

Bring me my young geranium, mother, for I want to see My little fav'rite-how it grows-if any flowers there be; Look! there's a bud-but oh! I shall not live to bless its bloom, Twill be so strong and beautiful when I am in the tomb.

I always dearly loved the flowers-let heaps of them be spread

Upon me in my coffin cold—the living with the dead;
And do, dear mother, see that on my little grave is set
My own sweet lilac-bush and plant of purple violet.

And sometimes, in such days as this, so glad, and bright, and mild,

Dear mother, will you come and sit by the grave-bed of your

child,

And will you bring this sweet geranium ?-Though you may

not see,

I will look down from heaven, and listen while you talk to me.

My walnut-tree, too, watch it well when I am gone away; With my own hands I planted it to mark my third birth-day: They told me I should sit beneath its broad green shade, And count the branches on its trunk that many years had

made.

I wish it was the autumn; I should not care to die

When the rich green leaves and the glorious flowers fade as well as I:

But in this merry month of May, when all things are awake; Pray for me, mother, to endure, O pray, for pity's sake!

DISDAIN RETURNED.

A graceful Lyric by CAREW, one of our old poets.
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;

As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise.
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolv'd heart to return;
I have search'd thy soul within,
And find nought but pride and scorn:
I have learn'd thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou.
Some Power in my revenge convey
That love to her I cast away!

YOUTH AND AGE.

By COLERIDGE.

VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young!
When I was young? Ah, woeful when!
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house, not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along!—

Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys that came down shower-like
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful ere!
Which tells me Youth 's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond deceit-
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will,
That Youth and I are housemates still.

TO AN INFANT

IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS.

By PHILIPS. The date of this poem is May 1, 1724.

TIMELY blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair;
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight;
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;

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