I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument--that tells to Heaven There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires. Yet read the names that know not death,- His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his, that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And when he breathes his master-lay All passions in our frames of clay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Praise to the bard!-His words are driven, Praise to the man!-A nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors, with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, Are there-o'er wave and mountain come, Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, Or trod the piled leaves of the West, All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? Mary Magdalen.-BRYANT. From the Spanish of Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola Thou weepest days of innocence departed; The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down to him who came from heaven Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise Holy, and pure, and wise. It is not much, that to the fragrant blossom Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, But come and see the bleak and barren mountains The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies. Be humble.-JONES. TRIUMPH not, frail man; thou art Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence; Triumph not, though nothing warns Of vigor waning fast; A pleasant morn, a sultry noon, Triumph not, though fortune sends If then thou countest many friends, But triumph not: that gold may go; And friends will fly in hour of wo. And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek, And woo a tender eye: But triumph not: a single week, And cold those lips may lie, Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove, And leave thee, for another love. But triumph, if thy soul feels firm Sabbath Evening Twilight.—ANONYMOUS. DELIGHTFUL hour of sweet repose, Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer! Each pure desire, each high request That burned before the temple shrine,The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast,All live again in light like thine. I love thee for the fervid glow Thou shed'st around the closing day,- And track the course where spirits fly, I love thee for the unbroken calm, That slumbers on this fading scene, Yet sets the soaring fancy free,- I love those joyous memories, That rush, with thee, upon the soul,- That o'er the spell-bound spirit roll. Yet holier is thy peaceful close, For vows love left recorded there ;- |