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The human soul; pot utterly makeow
Wie is the body lodged, be an abode:

On bar deserere waits, no tongue bath shown;
This mystery if the strenger can reveal,
His be a welcome cordially bestowed!"

CANUTE. A PLEASANT music floats along the mere, From monks in Ely chanting service high, Whileas Canute the king is rowing by: “My carsmen," quoth the mighty king, " draw near, That we the sweet song of the monks may hear!" He listens, all past conquests and all schemes Of future vanishing like empty dreams, Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still, While his free barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant rhyme. () suffering earth! be thankful; sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heaven-descended piety and song.


UNGRATEFUL country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled !
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russell's milder blood the scaffold wet;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred;
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of liberty to rise. Nor yet

(Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual things
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won or justly dear;
What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings,
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short.

1662. Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject Those unconforming; whom one rigorous day Drives from their cures, a voluntary prey To poverty and grief and disrespect, And some to want as if by tempests wrecked On a wild coast; how destitute! did they Feel not that conscience never can betray; That peace of mind is virtue's sure effect. Their altars they forego, their homes they quit, Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, And cast the future upon Providence; As men the dictate of whose inward sense Outweighs the world; whom self-deceiving wit Lures not from what they deem the cause of God.

PLACES OF WORSHIP. As star that shines dependent upon star Is to the sky while we look up in love; As to the deep fair ships which, though they move, Seem fixed to eyes that watch them from afar; As to the sandy desert fountains are, With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals, Whose fruit around the sun-burnt native falls Of roving tired or desultory war; Such to this British isle her Christian fanes, Each linked to each for kindred services;

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A POINT of life between my parents
And yours, my buried little ones! an I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
-zy I hope, if truly I repent

ally bear the ills which bear I must:

And you, my offspring ! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.

TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, for St. John's

College, Cambridge.] Go, faithful portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the saintly foundress, take thy place ; And, if time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, To think and feel as once the poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown Unrecognised through many a household tear, More prompt, more glad to fall, than drops of dew By morning shed around a flower half blown ; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

“WHY ART THOU SILENT ?” WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, As would my deeds have been, with hourly care,

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold.
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's nest filled with snow
Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine;
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

Tax not the royal saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the architect who planned,
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed scholars only, this immense
And glorious work of fine intelligence !
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.

What awful perspective! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or king, or sainted eremite,
Whoe'er ye be, that thus-yourselves unseen-
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on! until ye fade with coming night!
But, from the arms of silence-list! oh, list!
The music bursteth into second life;

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