I see the land which heroes trod;
I see the land where Virtue chose
To live alone, and live to God;

The land she gave to those

Who know that on the hearth alone
True freedom rears her fort and throne.

Lift up, not only hand and eye,

Lift up, O Man, thy heart on high :

Or downward gaze once more; and see
How spiritual dust can be!

Then far into the Future dive,

And ask if there indeed survive,
When fade the words, no primal shapes
Of disembodied hills and capes,
Types meet to shadow Godhead forth;
Dread antetypes of shapes on earth?
O Earth thou shalt not wholly die,
Of some "New Earth" the chrysalis
Predestined from Eternity,

Nor seldom seen through this;
On which, in glory gazing, we
Perchance shall oft remember thee,
And trace through it thine ancient frame
Distinct, like flame espied through flame,
Or like our earliest friends above,

Not lost, though merged in heavenlier love
How changed, yet still the same!
!...

The sun is set but upwards without end

Two mighty beams, diverging,

Like hands in benediction raised, extend;

From the great deep a crimson mist is surging.
Strange gleams, each moment ten times bright,
Shoot round, transfiguring as they smite
All spaces of the empyreal height -

Deep gleams, high Words which God to man doth speak,
From peak to solemn peak, in order driven,

They speak. A loftier vision dost thou seek?

Rise then

COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,
God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou
With courtesy receive him; rise and bow;
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave

Permission first his heavenly feet to lave;

Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality; no wave

Of mortal tumult to obliterate

The soul's marmoreal calmness: grief should be,
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate,
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;

Strong to consume small troubles; to command
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

A CHURCHYARD.

I.

Ir stands a grove of cedars vast and

green,

Cathedral-wise disposed, with nave and choir,
And cross-shaped transept lofty and serene;
And altar decked in festival attire

With flowers like urns of white and crimson fire;
A chancel girt with vine-trailed laurel screen;
And aisles high arched with cypresses between;
Retreats of mournful love, and vain desire.
Within the porch a silver fount is breathing
Its pure, cold dews upon the summer air:
Round it are blooming herbs, and flowers, the care
Of all the angels of the seasons, wreathing
Successively their unbought garniture
Round the low graves of the beloved poor.

II.

But when the winds of night begin to move
Along the murmuring roofs, deep music rolls
Through all the vaults of this cathedral grove;

A midnight service for departed souls.
Piercing the fan-like branches stretched above
Each chapel, oratory, shrine and stall;
Then a pale moonshine falls or seems to fall
On those cold grave-stones-altars reared by love
For a betrothal never to be ended;

And on the slender plants above them swinging;
And on the dewy lamps from these suspended;
And sometimes on dark forms in anguish clinging,
As if their bosoms to the senseless mould

Some vital warmth would add-or borrow of its cold.

THE TRUE BLESSEDNESS.

BLESSED is he who hath not trod the ways
Of secular delights, nor learned the lore
Which loftier minds are studious to abhor:
Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise
That perishes, the rapture that betrays;

Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war
His youth; and found a schoolboy at four score!

How fatal are those victories that raise

Their iron trophies to a temple's height

On trampled Justice, who desires not bliss,

But peace; and yet, when summoned to the fight
Combats as one who combats in the sight

Of God and of His angels; seeking this
Alone-how best to glorify the right.

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING.

SAD is our youth, for it is ever going
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing

In current unperceived, because so fleet;

Sad are our hopes, for they are sweet in sowing, -
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they are sweet in blowing,
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us

A nearer good to cure an older ill;

And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,

Not for their sake, but His, who grants them or denies them!

CHARLES DIBDIN.

DIBDIN, CHARLES, an English dramatist and writer of songs, born at Southampton in 1745; died in 1814. He was destined for the Church; but manifesting a talent for music, he went to London at the age of sixteen, and for a while supported himself by composing ballads for music-dealers and tuning pianos. He was engaged in several unsuccessful theatrical enterprises until, at the age of forty-five, he instituted a sort of musical entertainment, which he called "The Whim of the Moment," of which he was the sole author, composer, and performer. This proved successful, and he kept up this and similar entertainments until 1805, when he retired from professional life, having received a government pension of £200. He wrote nearly fifty dramatic pieces, none of which attained a permanent success. His place in literature rests mainly upon his sea-songs, the number of which exceeds 1000. The best known of these are "Poor Jack," and "Tom Bowling," written upon the death of his brother, Thomas Dibdin, a sea-captain.

SEA SONG.

I SAILED in the good ship the Kitty,

With a smart blowing gale and rough sea;
Left my Polly, the lads call so pretty,
Safe here at an anchor. Yo, Yea!

She blubbered salt tears when we parted,
And cried "Now be constant to me!"

I told her not to be down-hearted,

So up went the anchor. Yo, Yea!

And from that time, no worse nor no better,
I've thought on just nothing but she,
Nor could grog nor flip make me forget her,
She's my best bower-anchor. Yo, Yea!

When the wind whistled larboard and starboard,
And the storm came on weather and lee,
The hope I with her should be harbored
Was my cable and anchor. Yo, Yea!

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me,
And it ain't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should smite
And shiver each splinter of wood,

Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight,

And under reef foresail we 'll scud:

Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft,

To be taken for trifles aback;

For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;
And, my timbers! what lingo he 'd coil and belay;
Why, 't was all one to me as High Dutch;