Shine, thou, for forms that once were bright,
For sages in the mind's eclipse,
For those whose words were spells of might,
But falter now on stammering lips.

In thy decaying beam there lies

Full many a grave on hill and plain, Of those who closed their dying eyes In grief that they had lived in vain.

Another night, and thou among

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, All rayless in the glittering throng

Whose lustre late was quench'd in thine.

Yet soon, a new and tender light

From out thy darken'd orb shall beam, And broaden, till it shines all night

On glistening dew and glimmering stream.

CHRISTIAN NAMES.

A Sonnet by CHARLES LAMB.

IN Christian world Mary the garland wears!
Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew ear;
Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear;
And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears.
Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines!
What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round!
How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound!
Of Marthas and of Abigails few lines
Have bragg'd in verse.

Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can
You Barbara resist, or Marian?

And is not Clare for love excuse enough?
Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all than Saxon Edith please me less.

THE SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

Translated by LONGFELLOW from the German of SALIS.

INTO the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shatter'd wrecks lie thicker on the strand;
Who leads us with a gentle hand,
Thither, oh, thither,

Into the Silent Land.

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! tender morning visions
Of beauteous souls! Eternity's own band!
Who in life's battle firm doth stand,
Shall bear hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted;

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand,
To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed,

Into the Silent Land!

THE ARMADA.

Another spirit-stirring ballad by MACAULAY.

ATTEND all ye who list to hear our Noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,

When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth bay;

Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's

Isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile;

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Puita, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall. Many a light fishing-bark put out to spy along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;

His yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample

space,

For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalk'd he, when he turn'd to flight, on that famed Picard field,

Bohemia's plume, Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's silver shield: So glared he, when at Agincourt in wrath he turn'd to bay, And crush'd and torn beneath his claws the princely hunter lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids;

Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades:

Thou sun, shine on her joyously,-ye breezes waft her

wide,

Our glorious Semper Eadem,-the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy

fold,

The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of

gold;

Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple seaSuch night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall

be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford

Bay,

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to East, and swift to West, the warning radiance

spread;

High on St. Michael's Mount it shone-it shone on Beachy

Head.

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern

shire,

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire;

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners pour'd to war from Mendip's sunless

caves.

O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew ;

He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town,

And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall Gate look'd forth into the night; And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood

red light.

Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke,

And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke: At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clash'd from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower peal'd loud the voice of fear;

And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder

cheer.

And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying

feet,

And the broad streams of flags and pikes dash'd down each roaring street:

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in: And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike

errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent.

Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth,

High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the North;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded

still,

All night from tower to tower they spring,-they sprang from hill to hill,

Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely

height

Till stream'd in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of

light

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately

fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless

plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,

And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of

Trent;

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd on Gaunt's embattled

pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

AN ISLAND.

A passage of luxurious description from a poem entitled Epipsychidion, by SHELLEY.

It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise,

And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remain'd a sclitude
But for some pastoral people native there,
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,
Simple and spirited; innocent and bold.
The blue gean girds this chosen home,
With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;
And all the winds wandering along the shore
Undulate with the undulating tide:

There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ;