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And fill the seat with belle and beau
As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dead
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest,
Another and another guest.

The feather'd hearse and sable train
In all its wonted state,
Shall wind along the village-lane
And stand before the gate.

Brought many a distant country through
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away
All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gently o'er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall occupy the Squire's Pew.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

By EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The poet of the poor,

His books were rivers, woods and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,

The tyrant, and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace--and the grave!

Sin met thy brother everywhere!
And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;

But, honouring in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.

He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder'd labour's store,

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

TO A NEW VISITANT, ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING.

By J. H. WIFFEN.

"One that from some unknown sphere

Brings strange thoughts and feelings here:

Dreams of days gone out of mind,

Hints of home still left behind;

Spring's fresh pastime, winter's mirth,
Smiles of Heaven, and tears of Earth."

The Blank Leaf.

WELCOME, dear child, with all a father's blessing
To thy new sphere of motion, light, and life!
After the long suspense, the fear distressing

Love's strong subduing strife.

Seal'd with the smile of Him who made the morning, Though to the matron charge of Eve consign'd, Com'st thou, my radiant babe, the mystic dawning, Of one more deathless mind.

'Tis a strange world, they say, and full of trouble,
Wherein thy destin'd course is to be run:
Where joy is deem'd a shadow, peace a bubble,
And true bliss known to none.

Yet to high destinies it leads,--to natures
Glorious, and pure, and beautiful, and mild,
Shapes all impassive to decay, with features

Lovelier than thine, fair child!

To wing'd Beatitudes, for ever tending,
Rank above rank, to the bright source of bliss,
And, in ecstatic vision tranced, still blending,
Their grateful love with His.

Then, if thou'rt launch'd in this benign direction,
We will not sorrow that thy porch is past :
Come, many a picture waits thy young inspection,
Each lovelier than the last.

What shall it be? on Earth, in Air, in Ocean,
A thousand things are sparkling to excite
Thy hope, thy fear, joy, wonder, or devotion,
Heiress of rich delight.

Wilt thou, when Reason has her star implanted
On thy fair brow, with Galileo soar?

Rove with Linnæus through the woods, or haunted
Be by more charmed lore?

Shall sky-taught Painting, with her ardent feeling,
Her rainbow pencil to thy hand commit?
Or shall the quiver'd spells be thine, revealing
The polish'd shafts of Wit?

Or to thy fascinated eye, her mirror
Shall the witch Poesy delight to turn,
And strike thee warm to every brilliant error
Glanced from her magic urn?

Heed her not, darling! she will smile benignly,
So she may win thy inexperienced ear;
But the fond tales she warbles so divinely
Will cost thee many a tear.

She has a castle, where in death-like slumbers,
Full of wild dreams, she casts her slaves, some break
After long hurt, their golden chains; but numbers
Never with sense awake.

She it was, dear, who in Greek story acted

Such tragic masques: who in the grape's disguise Choked sweet Anacreon, Sappho's soul distracted, And sear'd old Homer's eyes:

Tasso she tortured, Savage unbefriended,

O'er Falconer's bones the matted sea-weed spread : Chatterton poison'd, Otway starved, and blended White with the early dead!

She too with many a smile thy sire has flatter'd,
Promising flowers, and fame, and guerdons rare ;
Till youth was past, and then, he found, she scatter'd
Her vows and wreaths in air.

Shun then the Siren: spurn her laurell'd chalice,
Though the bright nectar dance above the brim:
Lest she should seize thee in her mood of malice,
And tear thee, limb from limb.

But to selecter influences, my beauty,

Pay thy young vows,-to Truth, that ne'er beguiles, Virtue, fix'd faith, and unpretending duty,

Whose frowns beat Fancy's smiles.

Look on me, love, that in those radiant glasses
Thy future tastes and fortunes I may trace,-
O'er them alternate shade and sunshine passes,
Enhancing every grace.

Peace is there yet, and purity, and pleasure;
With a fond yearning o'er the leaves I look :
But the lid falls-farewell the enchanting treasure!
Closed is the starry book!

“AS I LAYE A THINKYNGE."

The last lines of THOMAS INGOLDSBY, whose real name was BARHAM-the author of the famous Ingoldsby Legends.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye :

As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the tree; There seem'd a crimson'd plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,

And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pityful to see.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely mayde came bye,
And a gentil youth was nyghe,
And he breathed manie a syghe
And a vowe,

As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the birde as she sat upon the thorne;
No more a youth was there,
But a maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sadde despaire,
"That I was borne!"

As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the birde as she sat upon the briar;
There came a lovely childe,

And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joyously he smiled

On his sire;

As I laye a-thynkynge, a cherub mote admire.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the birde as it perch'd upon a bier;
That joyous smile was gone,

And the face was white and wan
As the downe upon the swan

Doth appear,

As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flow'd the tear!

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
O merrie sang that birde as it glitter'd on her breast;

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