Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! The Everlasting One. "And when the hour arrives From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at Heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me." CAROLINE BOWLES. THE PRIMROSE. I SAW it in my evening walk- An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave, And close beneath came sparkling out, A little rill, that clipt about The lady in her cell. And there, methought, with bashful pride, She seemed to sit and look, On her own maiden loveliness, Pale imaged in the brook. No other flower, no rival grew She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun, No sunbeam on that fairy pool Only, methought, some clear, cold star, No ruffling wind could reach her there- And there was pleasantness to me Long time I looked, and lingered there, Absorbed in still delight, My spirits drank deep quietness In with that quiet sight. CAROLINE BOWLES. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. TREAD Softly-bow the head In rev'rent silence bow No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger! however great, With lowly rev'rence bow; One by that paltry bed- Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! death doth keep his state, Enter-no guards defend That pavement, damp and cold, One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands No mingling voices sound An infant wail alone; A sob suppressed-again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh! change-oh, wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars— This moment there, so low, So agonized-and now Beyond the stars. Oh! change-stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod; The sun eternal breaks The new immortal wakes- Wakes with his God. CAROLINE BOWLES. THE HUGUENOT'S BATTLE-HYMN. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour dressed, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving, hark to the mingled din Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies-upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow white crest; |