What is magic's mightiest wand At its touch the palm shall bloom Sea! that hear'st the dreary gale O'er thy lonely billows wail, When in strength this hand is raised, SATAN. FROM A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. Yet, brighter than thy brightest hour, EPITAPH. "Thou thy wor!lly task hast done." SHAKSPEARE. HIGH peace to the soul of the dead, On the stars in her glory to tread, To be bright in the blaze of the throne. In youth she was lovely; and Time, The summons came forth,-and she died! Whom she loved, mingled tears at her sideHer death was the mourner's repose. Our weakness may weep o'er her bier, But her spirit has gone on the wing To rejoice in the joy of her King. "Satan dilated stood." MILTON. THE SONG OF ANTAR. FROM THE ARABIC. PRINCE of the fall'n! around thee sweep But thou dost like a mountain stand, A naked giant, stern, sublime, On thy curl'd lip is throned disdain, That may revenge, but not complain: Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale, There smote the blast of fiery hail. Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there, The wreck of an archangel's sphere. No giant pinions round thee cling, ANTAR, the great Arabian Epic, has become popular from Mr. Hamilton's admirable transiation. Yet the extravagance of the hero's lyrics is perhaps too unlicensed for English poetry. IBLA, I love thee. On my heavy eye Thine flashes, like the lightning on the cloud. I cannot paint thy beauty; for it leaves All picturing pale. Were I to say the moon Looks in her midnight glory like thy brow, Where is the wild, sweet sparkling of thine eye? Or that the palm is like thy stately form, Where is thy grace among its waving boughs? Thy forehead's whiteness is my rising sun; Thine ebon tresses wreathing it like night, Like night bewilder me; thy teeth are pearls, In moist lips rosier than the Indian shell. But now my world is darkness, for thou'rt gone? Thy look was to my life what evening dews Are to the tamarisk: thy single glance Went swifter, deeper, to thy lover's heart, Than spear or scimitar; and still I gaze Hopeless on thee, as on the glorious moon, For thou, like her, art bright, like her above me EBENEZER ELLIOTT. EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the Corn-Law Rhymer, was born at Masborough, Yorkshire, March 7, 1781. His parents were dissenters, and he was strongly imbued with his father's religious and democratic principles. He was a slow scholar, but after a while began to read diligently, and at the age of seventeen published a poem entitled "The Vernal Walk." He went into business as an iron-founder in Sheffield in 1821, and in 1841 retired with a competence. He published poems from time to time-the most famous being the "Corn-Law Rhymes," denouncing the laws which regulated the importation of grain. Two other volumes were called "The Ranter" and "The Village Patriarch." A collected edition was issued in 1834. He died on December 1, 1849. THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE-BLOSSOM. BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, Thy leaves will come as heretofore; A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be. Why here in winter? No storm lours But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, Sweet violets in the budding grove Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love, Sing to the sun. And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chant hymns to God, For as the rainbow of the dawn A sunbeam on the saddened lawn Thy leaves will come! but songful Spring Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath, Even as the blushes of the morn Vanish, and long ere noon The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, So fair I bloomed; and was I born To die as soon? To love my mother, and to die— Is this my sad, brief history?— The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, He lived and loved-will sorrow say Smiles o'er the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, To tell me that the worm makes room By early sorrow tried; He smiled, he sighed, he passed away: His life was but an April day, He loved, and died! My mother smiles, then turns away, I need not hear, for in the clay I soon must sleep. Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is To be both tried and true; But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade, Then panting woods the breeze will feel, Beneath their load of roses reel; Well, lay me by my brother's side, Where late we stood and wept; For I was stricken when he died,I felt the arrow as he sighed His last, and slept. TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou need'st not be ashamed to show For dull the eye, the heart is dull That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them! While silent showers are falling slow, And 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn-flower is dead; The violet by the moss'd gray stone Hath laid her wearied head; But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, LET IDLERS DESPAIR. LET idlers despair! there is hope for the wise, Who rely on their own hearts and hands; And we read in their souls, by the flash of their eyes, That our land is the noblest of lands. Let knaves fear for England, whose thoughts wear a mask, While a war on our trenchers they wage: Free Trade, and no favor! is all that we ask; Fair play, and the world for a stage! Secure in their baseness, the lofty and bold In the warm sun of knowledge, that kindles our blood, And fills our cheer'd spirits with day, Their splendor, contemn'd by the brave and the good, Like a palace of ice, melts away. Our compass, which married the East and the West Our press, which makes many minds oneOur steam-sinew'd giant, that toils without restProclaim that our perils are gone. We want but the right, which the God of the night Denies not to birds and to bees; The charter of Nature! that bids the wing'd light Fly chainless as winds o'er the seas. THE DAY WAS DARK. THE day was dark, save when the beam In gloomy state as in a dream, Lo, splendor, like a spirit came! While there I sat, and named her name, I started from the seat in fear; Like gather'd flowers half-blown. Again the bud and breeze were met, The thrush proclaim'd in accents sweet I think, I feel-but when will she No voice of comfort answers me; REGINALD HEBER. REGINALD HEBER was born at Malpas, Cheshire, | Calcutta the next year. He arrived in India in April 21, 1783. He was educated at Oxford, | June, 1824, and at once began a tour of the dis where he wrote his prize poem "Palestine" in 1803. In 1807 he became Rector of Hodnet. He was a Tory and High Churchman, and contributed frequently to the Quarterly Review. He published a volume of hymns in 1812, and by these, several of which are among the most popular in existence, he is best known. He became preacher of Lincoln's Inn in 1822, and Bishop of tant stations of his diocese. He was noted for his learning and piety, and was extremely zeal. ous in his ministerial work. Thus he overworked himself, and was found dead in his bath, April 3, 1826. His widow published a life of him in 1830. A good edition of his poems was issued in 1855. |