And his head was pillow'd haughtily

On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy pile
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat ;-yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,

There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues; but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name

Was a trumpet note in war,

His pathway still the march of fame,

His eye the battle star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown,

From the colour'd light, one ray,

Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
Mourning for parted worth;

But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:

Whose young pure memory, lying deep
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,*
A soft light meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,

Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories—yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,

The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.

To heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household sound-

And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!

* Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.

WORDSWORTH.

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;

Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage-this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?

What but the spirit of the joyous child,

That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth

A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I LOOK'D on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear,

As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood,
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the
wood.

Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of
despair.

I look'd on the field of contention again,

When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past;

The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast.

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blue;

And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearldrops of dew.

But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host,

As the ocean in might as the storm-cloud in speed! Where now were the thunders of victory's boast— The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone, Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!

Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;

A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent

A

grave

with its tenants unwept and forgot!'

A PENITENT'S RETURN.

"Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,

Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,

Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,

The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,

And wins him o'er to virtue."

WILSON.

My father's house once more,

In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!