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Hath yet this faithful partner left;
This single creature that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves.
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him, for one or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep,
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
A few tears down her cheek descend
For this her last and livmg friend.

Bless, tender hearts, their mutual lot,
And bless for both this savage spot I
Which Emily doth sacred hold
For reasons dear and manifold—
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height,
The grassy rock-encircled' pound
In which the creature first was found;
So beautiful the spotless thrall,
A lovely youngling white as foam,
That it was brought to Rylstone Hall;
Her youngest brother led it home,
The youngest, then a lusty boy,
Brought home the prize—and with what jey!

But most to Bolton's sacred pile, On favouring nights, she loved to go: There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle, Attended by the soft-paced doe; Nor feared she in the still moonshine To look upon Saint Mary's shrine; Nor on the lonely turf that showed Where Francis slept in his last abode. For that she came; there oft and long She sate in meditation strong:

And, when she from the abyss returned

Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;

Was happy that she lived to greet

Her mute companion as it lay

In love and pity at her feet;

How happy in its turn to meet

That recognition! the mild glance

Beamed from that gracious countenance,

Communication, like the ray

Of a new morning, to the nature

And prospects of the inferior creature!

A mortal song we frame, by dower Encouraged of celestial power; Power which the viewless spirit shed By whom we were first visited; Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, When, left in solitude, erewhile We stood before this ruined pile, And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, Sang in this presence kindred themes; Distress and desolation spread Through human heart, and pleasure dead, Dead—but to live again on earth, A second and yet nobler birth; Dire overthrow, and yet how high The re-ascent in sanctity! From fair to fairer; day by day A more divine and loftier way! Even such this blessed pilgrim trod, By sorrow lifted towards her God; Uplifted to the purest sky Of undisturbed mortality. Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend

A dear look to her lowly friend,
There stopped; her thirst was satisfied
With what this innocent spring supplied—
Her sanction inwardly she bore,
And stood apart from human cares:
But to the world returned no more,
Although with no unwilling mind
Help did she give at need, and joined
The Wharfedale peasants in their prayers.
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
To earth, she was set free, and died.
Thy soul, exalted Emily,
Maid of the blasted family,
Rose to the God from whom it came!
In Rylstone church her mortal frame
Was buried by her mother's side.

Most glorious sunset! and a ray
Survives—the twilight of this day;
In that fair creature whom the fields
Support, and whom the forest shields;
Who, having filled a holy place,
Partakes, in her degree, heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind
Raised far above the law of kind;
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear mistress once held dear:
Loves most what Emily loved most—
The inclosure of this churchyard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
And every Sabbath here is found;
Comes with the people when the bells
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
Lies open on the Sabbath-day;

Here walks amid the mournful waste
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced,
And floors encumbered with rich show
Of fretwork imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault,
By plate of monumental brass
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured forms of warriors brave,
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive visitant is seen.
Where doth the gentle creature He
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved;
And aye, methinks, this hoary pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say,
"Thou, thou art not a child of time,
Cut daughter of the eternal prime!"

PETER BELL.

S rale.

PROLOGUE.

'-THERE *S something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds T '11 ,never float
Until I have a little boat,
Whose shape is like the crescent-moon.

And now I have a little boat,

In shape a very crescent-moon:—

Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;

But if perchance your faith should fail,

Look up—and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my friends, are round you roaring
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger fills your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little boat and me I

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe:
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distressed,
Till my ribs ached, I 'd laugh at you I

Away we go, my boat and I—
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
^ach is contented with the other.

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