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By her Sigurd's blood-stained bier,

As with equal death opprest, Gudrun sat; she shed no tear,

Her hand she smote not on her breast: Word, nor sign, nor act might show The wonted course of woman's woe.

Sages came, the wisest they,

But vain the aids from art they borrow; Can rhetoric soothe, or reason sway,

That stern mood of deepest sorrow, When the heart to bursting swells, Yet no tear its anguish tells ?

Round her pressed a widowed train,

Sisters they, in grief united,
Calling back long scenes of pain,

Each her own sad tale recited :
Vainly thus to wake they try
The soothing power of sympathy.

Vainly; for her anguished mind,

Stunned beneath that sudden blow,
Hardens, to itself confined,

to another's woe. Hard and cold was Gudrun's soul, Nor sigh would rise, nor tear would roll.

Last did youthful Gulrand speak

“Matrons, though in wisdom old, Here, I ween, your skill is weak;

Age's counsels, all too cold, Cannot reach the widowed heart, When youth's strong loves are rent apart.”

With hurrying hand, from Sigurd's bier,

Swept she then the pall away: “On him, thy love, look, Gudrun dear!

To his cold lip thy warm lip lay; And round him, as they still could hold Thy living lord, thine arms enfold.”

Gudrun turned-one hurried glance

On that much-loved form she threwA moment viewed, where murder's lance

Had pierced the breast to her so true; Saw stiff with blood those locks of gold, And quenched that eye so bright, so bold.

She saw, and sank, and low reclined

Hid in the couch her throbbing head: Her loose veil floated unconfined,

Her burning cheek was crimsoned red : Then, her bursting heart's relief, Copious fell the shower of grief.a

* Translated, in “Conybeare's Anglo-Saxon Poetry,” from an Icelandic Poem.


CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind ;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.

0, source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.

Refine and purge our earthly parts :
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts :
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe: Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!



THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads;

Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray;
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crowned,
And streams shall murmur all around.



SWEET brooklet! ever gliding-
Now high the mountain riding,
The lone vale now dividing,

Whither away?

“With pilgrim course I flow,

Or in summer's scorching glow,
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow,

Nor stop, nor stay:

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