Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-beil's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.

The Cottage Homes of England!

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT.

The prisoned thrush may brook the cage,
The captive eagle dies for rage.
Lady of the Lake.

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound! And the knight looked down from the Paynim's

tower,

And a Christian host in its pride and power,

Through the pass beneath him wound. Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

"I knew 'twas a trumpet's note. And I see my brethren's lances gleam, And their pennons wave by the mountain stream,

And their plumes to the glad wind float! Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

"I am here, with my heavy chain ! And I look on a torrent sweeping by, And an eagle rushing to the sky,

And a host, to its battle-plain! Cease awhile clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice--be still!

"Must I pine in my fetters here?

With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight,

And the tall spears glancing on my sight,

And the trumpet in mine ear? Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

"They are gone! they have all passed by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved with a brother's heart, They have left me here to die!

Sound again, clarion! Clarion pour thy blast! Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past."

THE MINSTER.

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined Our hopes of immortality.

Byron

SPEAK low-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer;
Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death
Broods with a noiseless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageant

ry:

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord

Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have poured

Their anguish forth, are with me and around ;I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years. Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head; And thou still battling with the tempest's forceThou, whose bright spirit through all time has

bled

Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace! -Does not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place

By every grief hath made its might confest! -Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thine earnest eye Ever following silently; Father, by the breeze of eve Called thy harvest-work to leave; Prayere yet the dark hours bo, Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone

Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun!
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain :
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

WASHINGTON'S STATUE.

Sent from England to America.

YES! rear thy guardian Hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western World'
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er Freedom's flag unfurl'd.

There, as before a shrine to bow,
Bid thy true sons thy children lead;
The language of that noble brow

For all things good shall plead.

The spirit reared in patriot fight,
The Virtue born of Home and Hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o'er chainless earth.

And let that work of England's hand, Sent through the blast and surge's roar, So girt with tranquil glory, stand

For ages on thy shore!

Such through all time the greeting be, That with the Atlantic billow sweep! Telling the Mighty and the Free

Of Brothers o'er the Deep!

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE

CASTRO.

union redoutable de la mort et de la vie!

Madame de Stael.

THERE was music on the midnight;-
From a royal fane it rolled,
And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly tolled.
Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hushed the listener's breath;

One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compressed, Lest the strong heart should fail: King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done, By the land's flower and chivalry, To her, his martyred one.

But on the face he looked not,

Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turned,

Save of the breathless queen:

And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!

But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror's moan

"My brother! oh! my brother! best and bravest. hou art gone!"

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the raging blast,

Had vailed her topsails to the sand, And bowed her noble mast.

The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her-
We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas-
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,
And sadder things than these.

We saw her treasures cast away

The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray

Flashed out o'er fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze-
And gorgeous robes-but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside-
Yet by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay-

Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had prest,
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye-

He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony!

Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,

So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu-

Surely thou hast another lot,
There is some home for thee,