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Mount AIN no pomp of waving woods hast thou,
That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow;
No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread,
No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed.
But thou canst boast thy beauties, ample views
That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse:
Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas
Now glassy smooth, now wrinkling to the breeze;
And when the drizzly winter, wrapt in sleet,
Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts beat-
Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof,
And frowning, bleak and bare, and tempest-proof,
Look, as with awful confidence, and brave
The howling hurricane,—the dashing wave;
More graceful when the storm's dark vapours frown,
Than when the summer suns in pomp go down |


Look at those sleeping children —softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream ; and come not nigh
"Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,
“'Tis morn, awake! awake!” Ah! they are dead!
Yet folded in each other's arms they lie—
So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly;
So breathing and so beautiful they seem
As if to die in youth were to dream
Of spring and flowers 1—of flowers ? yet nearer stand,-
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,
As if its cup with tears was wet !
So sleeps that child,—not faded, though in death;
And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,
As when she first did lay her head to rest
Gently on that sister's breast,
And kiss'd her ere she fell asleep !
Th’ archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.
“Take up those flowers that fell
From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!
Your spirits rest in bliss —
Yet ere with parting prayers we say
Farewell for ever ! to the insensate clay,
Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss"
Ah! 'tis cold marble ! Artist, who has wrought
This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,
Thine, Chantrey, be the fame
That joins to immortality thy name.
For these sweet children that so sculptured rest,-
A sister's head upon a sister's breast,-
Age after age shall pass away,
Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay:
For here is no corruption,-the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form:
This smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age 1
Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
Shall gaze with tears upon the monument
And fathers sigh, with half suspended breath,
“How sweetly sleep the innocent in death."


Monastic and time-consecrated fane !
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august, as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The host high-raised, or fuming censer swung ;
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order go;-
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,
As to admit heaven's pale but purer light;
Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows,
E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose
Amid the silent sanctity of death,
Like giants, seem to guard the dust beneath :
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile,
Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?
Oh, mightiest Master thy immortal strains
These roofs demand. Listen, with prelude slow,
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.
And, harks again, heard ye the choral chaunt
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?
More softly now, imploring litanies,
Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs
Of penitence, from yon high altar rise :
Again the vaulted roof “ Hosannah” rings—
“Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!”
Rent, but not prostrate, stricken, yet sublime,
Reckless alike of injuries or time;
Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy!
The temple of our Sion so shall mock
The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,
Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock


CoME, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace
Visit my humble dwelling, welcomed in,
Not with loud shouts, and the throng'd city's din,
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row scene,
Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd,
To pay him for his farewell song, all these
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
The stilly-stirring fancies, though my hours
(For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs)
Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad;
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
That seems to say, “Forget the transient tear
Thy pale youth shed,—repose and peace are here.”


FAIR moon! that at the chilly day's decline
Of sharp December, through my cottage pane
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Sombrous and strange upon the dark'ning wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deep'ning night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze
I think—around me in this twilight room—
I but remark mortality's sad gloom;
Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear
In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere!

so NNETs.
TIM e.

O TIME who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile,
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :-
Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure'

Dow ert clipps.

ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wand'rer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
But, if like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide—
The world his country, and his God his guide.

As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard,
Heartless the carol of the matin bird
Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head,

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