Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!
Safe with the Source of Love,

The Everlasting One.

"And when the hour arrives

From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await

The first at Heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me."

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE PRIMROSE.

I SAW it in my evening walk-
A little lonely flower-
Under a hollow bank it grew,
Deep in a mossy bower.

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave,
With Gothic fret-work sprung,
Where jewelled fern, and arum leaves,
And ivy garlands hung.

And close beneath came sparkling out,
From an old tree's fallen shell,

A little rill, that clipt about

The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with bashful pride,

She seemed to sit and look,

On her own maiden loveliness,

Pale imaged in the brook.

No other flower, no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid;

She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun,
In solitude and shade.

No sunbeam on that fairy pool
Darted its dazzling light—

Only, methought, some clear, cold star,
Might tremble there at night.

No ruffling wind could reach her there-
No eye, methought, but mine,
Or the young lambs that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shrine.

And there was pleasantness to me
In such belief-cold eyes,
That slight dear nature's loveliness,
Profane her mysteries.

Long time I looked, and lingered there,

Absorbed in still delight,

My spirits drank deep quietness

In with that quiet sight.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

TREAD Softly-bow the head

In rev'rent silence bow

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly rev'rence bow;
There's one in that poor shed-

One by that paltry bed-
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! death doth keep his state,
Enter-no crowds attend-

Enter-no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,

Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound

An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed-again

That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.

Oh! change-oh, wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars—

This moment there, so low,

So agonized-and now

Beyond the stars.

Oh! change-stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod;

The sun eternal breaks

The new immortal wakes-

Wakes with his God.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE HUGUENOT'S BATTLE-HYMN.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories

are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy

walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of

war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand:

And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of

war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour dressed, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to

wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord

the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving, hark to the mingled din Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies-upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest;