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From the great morning of the world, when first God dawned on chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

SHELLEY.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.

WOLFE.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their green sward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;

Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brook,

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 flow'ry sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God.

HEMANS.

EVENING PRAYER IN A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed by night, in prayer.

Gaze on-'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
- Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

DEATH'S SEASONS.

HEMANS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

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