156

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,

And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door,

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow

ing green;

She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.

She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never gar

den more;

But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set

About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn;

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.— Wordsworth.

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see, with eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

157

THE LOST PLEIAD. - Mrs. Hemans.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?-
O void unmarked!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence;

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning,
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, -
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are,
When, from its height afar,

A world sinks thus, and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!

CORONACH.*-Sir W. Scott.

He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The fount, reäppearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;

*Funeral song.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

The autumn winds, rushing,

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corei,*

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever!

THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. - Mrs. Southey.

TREAD Softly,bow the head,

In reverent silence bow,
No passing bell doth toll,-
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state;

Enter! no crowds attend;

Enter! no guards defend

This palace-gate.

The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.

159

160

AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,-
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed, — again
That short, deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

O change! — O wondrous change! -
Burst are the prison-bars;

This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

O change, stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks,
The new immortal wakes, -

Wakes with his God.

AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD. - Watts,

SWEET flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing
Swift and gently cleaves the sky,
Whose charming notes address the spring
With an artless harmony;

Lovely minstrels of the field,