Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; The ale, new brew'd, in floods of amber shine: And basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, ""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled!"

And soon again shall music swell the breeze! Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping's heard where only joy has been; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is Human Life;- so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!

ROGERS.

143. THE EXPULSION OF ADAM AND EVE FROM PARADISE.

[From PARADISE LOST.]

TH' Archangel stood; and from the other hill
To their fix'd station, all in bright array,
The Cherubim descended; on the ground,
Gliding metéorous, as evening mist

Ris'n from a river o'er the marish glides,
And gathers round fast at the labourer's heel,
Homeward returning. High in front advanced,
The brandish'd sword of God before them blazed,
Fierce as a comet; which, with torrid heat,
And vapour as the Libyan air adust,
Began to parch that temp'rate clime; whereat
In either hand the hast'ning Angel caught
Our ling'ring parents, and to th' eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain; then disappear'd.
They, looking back, all th' eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
With dreadful faces throng'd, and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They, hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.

MILTON.

144. THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.

THOU

HOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb: Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;
But the mild rays of paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's
song!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee,
And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!

He

BISHOP HEBER.

145. KINDRED HEARTS.

H! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch

Bids the sweet fountains flow:

Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet:

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It

may

be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns:

It

may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring —
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And stedfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,

With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,

Never to mortals given,→→
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them up to heaven!

MRS. HEM ANS.

146. AN ENGLISH PEASANT.

[From THE PARish Register.]

O pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,

At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind.

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried:
The still tears, trickling down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.