the air deaf with their triumph-yell. The living-dead must shudder with yet another pang; her startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say, God pity thee! O think not of these; think of Him whom thou worshippest, the Crucified-who also treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper, and triumphed over it, and made it holy, and built of it a sanctuary of sorrow' for thee and all the wretched. Thy path of thorns is nigh ended ; one long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was once so light-where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rushes-dumb lies the world; that wild-yelling world, with all its madness, is behind thee. Carlyle.

Ex. 64.

Ex. 65.

The Death Bed.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers,

To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied,

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed,-she had
Another morn than ours.

Resignation.

T. Hood.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours,
Amid these earthly damps;

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead, -the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing
The grief that must have way.

Longfellow.

'Unto the Godly there ariseth up light in darkness.'

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

Newman.

Ex. 67.

Night and Death.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind.

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

Blanco White.

Ex. 68.

Ode on the Passions.

When Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First FEAR his hand, his skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewilder'd laid—
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next ANGER rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan DESPAIR-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O HOPE! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair;

And longer had she sung-but with a frown

REVENGE impatient rose ;

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected PITY at his side

Her soul subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of diffring themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on HATE.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale MELANCHOLY sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone,
When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green ;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,