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Such grief was ours—it seems but yesterday-
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay,
'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die!
Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame,
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came !
And, when recalled to join the blest above,
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love,
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours,
When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers,
Once in thy mirth thou bad’st me write on thee;
And now I write-what thou shalt never see!

At length the Father, vain his power to save,
Follows his child in silence to the grave,
(That child how cherished, whom he would not give,
Sleeping the sleep of death, for All that live ;)
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade
Scatters the earth as “dust to dust” is said,
Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief
Consoling others in that hour of grief,
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing.

But hark, the din of arms! no time for sorrow. To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow!

One parting pang, and then—and then I fly,
Fly to the field, to triumph—or to die!
He goes, and Night comes as it never came !
With shrieks of horror!-and a vault of flame!
And lo! when morning mocks the desolate,
Red runs the river by; and at the gate
Breathless a horse without his rider stands !
But hush! . . a shout from the victorious bands !
And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored!
One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword;
One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival ;
While She best-loved, till then forsaken never,
Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever!

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days,
Days of domestic peace-by him who plays
On the great stage how uneventful thought ;
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught,
A thousand incidents that stir the mind
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind!
Such as the heart delights in-and records
Within how silently-in more than words!
A Holiday—the frugal banquet spread
On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head

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With quips and cranks — what time the wood-lark

Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air,
What time the king-fisher sits perched below,
Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow :-
A Wake—the booths whitening the village-green,
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen ;
Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled,
Picturing at large the wonders of the world ;
And far and wide, over the vicar's pale,
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale,
All, all abroad, and music in the gale :-
A Wedding-dance-a dance into the night
On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light;
When the

bride receives the promised dower,
And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower :-
A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,
(Who would be rich while One was wanting bread ?)
When all are emulous to bring relief,
And tears are falling fast—but not for grief:-
A Walk in Spring-GRATTAN, like those with thee
By the heath-side (who had not envied me?)
When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June,
Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon;


And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise,
Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise,
Thou wouldst call up and question.

Graver things
Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings
Its holy office; and the sabbath-bell,
That over wood and wild and mountain-dell
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy
With sounds most musical, most melancholy,
Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues
The pathway leading through the aged yews,
Nor unattended ; and, when all are there,
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer,
That House with many a funeral-garland hung*
Of virgin-white-memorials of the young,
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing,
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing;
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love,
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above,
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven-
Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven?

Nor at the fragrant hour—at early dawnUnder the elm-tree on his level lawn,

* A custom in some of our country-churches.

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Or in his porch is he less duly found,
When they that cry for Justice gather round,
And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned ;
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate,
Like ALFRED judging at his palace-gate.
Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close;
And they return as friends, that came as foes.

Thus, while the world but claims its proper part,
Oft in the head but never in the heart,
His life steals on ; within his quiet dwelling
That homefelt joy all other joys excelling.
Sick of the crowd, when enters he—nor then
Forgets the cold indifference of men ?

Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in,
And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin.
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong
Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen,
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green;
And in from far a schoolboy's letter flies,
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise)
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not ?)
Born with the day and with the day forgot ;

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