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No death-strewn fields his honours stain ;

He battles nor for fame nor gold ;
But with an earnest, loving heart,
He conneth still, and plays his part.
No painted badge, no tinsel star,

Lie idly glittering on his breast ;
But-nobler, grander, worthier far-

Truth's light stands in his eyes confest:
And round the broad brow proudly plays,
That glows and brightens in its blaze!
This brave, high homage, spirit-paid,
Shall shrine

the worth of woman too,
Fitly

entitling wife and maid,
“The Meek, ” “ The Tender,” or “ The True,"
And she whose brow small beauty wears
May yet well grace the name she bears.
Is this a dream ? No!-by the past,

With its dense darkness—pierced at length,
And by the present,-- brightening fast,

And by the future's noon-day strength,
Earth's truly Great and Good shall be
Her last, best aristocracy !

A LAMENT. T. K. HERVEY is one of the most graceful of our living poets. His works, which are not numerous, without any pretensions to power or sublimity, are almost always beautiful, and cannot fail to please readers of refined taste. The following stanzas are extracted from a poem of his entitled The Brazen Head. There is a great deal of pathos in them.

She sleeps that still and placid sleep

For which the weary pant in vain,
And, where the dews of evening weep,
I
may

not weep again ;-
Oh! never more upon

her

grave Shall I behold the wild flower wave !

They laid her where the sun and moon

Look on her tomb with loving eye ;

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And I have heard the breeze of June

Sweep o'er it, like a sigh ;
And the wild river's wailing song
Grew dirge-like as it stole along.
And I have dreamt, in many dreams,

Of her who was a dream to me ;
And talked of her, by summer streams,

In crowds, and on the sea,
Till in my soul she was enshrined,
A young Egeria of the mind.
'Tis years ago !-and other eyes

Have flung their beauty o'er my youth ;
And I have hung on other sighs,

And sounds that seem'd like truth; And loved the music which they gave Like that which perish'd in the grave ! And I have left the cold and dead,

To mingle with the living cold :-
There is a weight around my head,

My heart is growing old :
Oh! for a refuge and a home
With thee, dead Ellen, in thy tomb !
Age sits upon my breast and brain,

My spirit fades before its time,
But they are all thine own, again,

Lost partner of their prime !
And thou art dearer in thy shroud
Than all the false and selfish crowd !

a

go,

Rise, gentle vision of the hours

Which like birds that come not back!
And fling thy pale and funeral flowers

On Memory's wasted track !
Oh! for the wings that made thee blest,
To flee away, and be at rest !

A PAGAN'S DRINKING SONG.

This singularly original lyric is taken from a volume of poems called ! Studies of Sensation and Event by EBENEZER JONES. It is full of the spirit of the olden time, when poetry was more an emotion than an art. LIKE the bright white arm of a young god, thrown

To the hem of a struggling maiden's gown, The torrent leaps on the kegs of stone

That held this wine in the dark gulf down; Deep fathoms five it lay in the cold,

The afternoon summer heats heavily weigh : This wine is awaiting in flagons of gold,

On the side of the hill that looks over the bay.

a

There a bower of vines for each one bends,

Under the terracing cedar trees;
Where, shut from the presence of foes or friends,

He may couch and quaff in lonely ease.
The sunshine slants past the dark green cave;

In the sunshine the galleys before him will drowse ;
And the roar of the town, like a far-travell’d wave,

Will faintly flow in to his calm carouse.
No restless womanhood frets the bower,

Exacting and fawning, and vain and shy;
But a beautiful boy shall attend the hour,

And silently low in the entrance lie.
As he silently reads the scrolls that tell

The Cyprian's loves, and the maiden's dreams,
His limbs will twine and his lips will swell,

And his eyes dilate with glorious schemes ;
And his yearning limbs, and his sultry mouth,

Will recall to the drinker his own youth's prime,
When there seem'd crowding round him from east, west,

and south,
Countless beautiful beings with capturing mime ;
And he'll mourn for youth, and he'll deem more dear

This cool bright wine :-To our bowers away!
And nothing will witness the sigh or the tear

On the side of the hill that looks over the bay !

A CALM AFTER A STORM.

A beautiful passage from MOORE's Lalla Rookh.

How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour when storms are gone!
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds beneath the glancing ray
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn!
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm ;
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles as 'twere that lightning gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them !

When 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears, –

As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own,
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs !
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all :
And even that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest-
Too newly to be quite at rest !

ENGLISH CHURCHES. The "too early lost” Miss LANDON left as a legacy to the world a portfolio of unpublished poems, one of which is the following, touching and beautiful :

How beautiful they stand,
Those ancient altars of our native land!

Amid the pasture fields and dark green woods,
Amid the mountain's cloudy solitudes ;
By rivers broad that rush into the sea ;

By little brooks that, with a lapsing sound,
Like playful children, run by copse and lea !

Each in its little plot of holy ground,

How beautiful they stand,
Those old grey churches of our native land !

Our lives are all turmoil ;
Our souls are in a weary strife and toil,
Grasping and straining-tasking nerve and brain,
Both day and night, for gain !
We have grown worldly—have made gold our god-

Have turned our hearts away from lowly things; We seek not now the wild flower on the sod;

We seek not snowy-folded angel's wings

Amid the summer skies“
For visions come not to polluted eyes !

Yet, blessed quiet fanes !
Still piety, still poetry remains,
And shall remain, whilst ever on the air
One chapel-bell calls high and low to prayer,-
Whilst ever green and sunny churchyards keep

The dust of our beloved, and tears are shed
From founts which in the human heart lie deep !

Something in these aspiring days we need,

To keep our spirits lowly, To set within our hearts sweet thoughts and holy !

And 'tis for this they stand,
The old grey churches of our native land !
And even in the gold-corrupted mart,
In the great city's heart,
They stand; and chantry dim, and organ sound,

And stated services of prayer and praise,
Like to the righteous ten which were not found

For the polluted city, shall upraise,

Meek faith and love sincere-
Better in time of need than shield and spear !

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