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! THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. The prisoned thrush may brook the cage, '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 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 Of a voice from this world gone ; Warrior, that from battle won WASHINGTON'S STATUE. Sent from England to America. YES! rear thy guardian Hero's form There, as before a shrine to bow, For all things good shall plead. The spirit reared in patriot fight, 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. Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; And beside her stood in silence union redoutable de la mort et de la vie! Madame de Stael. THERE was music on the midnight;- 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! Though something, won from the grave's embrace, But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in 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 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, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn, We saw her treasures cast away The rocks with pearls were sown, Flashed out o'er fretted stone. We saw the strong man still and low, Till then we had not wept, For her pale arms a babe had prest, 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, And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, Deep in her bosom lay his head, He had known little of her dread, Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart, So stamps upon thy mortal part Surely thou hast another lot, |