He cometh, He cometh! the Lord he is near; He cometh, He cometh! the Lord is in ire; He cometh, He cometh! the tempest is o'er; How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace, There is rest for the soul that on Jesus relies, O had I the wings of a dove I would fly, And mount on the pinions of faith to the sky, Mrs Hemans. { Born 1793. Died 1834. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, 25th September 1793, of respectable parents, who afterwards removed to St Asaph, in Wales. So early as the age of fifteen, she published a volume of poetry; and two years later, "The Domestic Affections, and other Poems." This volume brought her into immediate notice. The same year she married Captain Hemans. The marriage seems not to have been a very happy one, for, after the birth of five children, her husband set out on a visit to Italy, and they never met again. In 1819 she published "Sir William Wallace," a poem; and from this time till her death, a constant series of her works issued from the press. It is said of her, "that few have written so much and so well as she." About the year 1830, she removed to Dublin, where she superintended the education of her five boys, and where she died on 26th April 1834. THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. THE wine month shone in its golden prime, A sound through vaulted cave, A sound through echoing glen, But a band, the noblest band of all, The herdsman's arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn But on the misty height Where the mountain people stood There was stillness as of night, When storms at distance brood. There was stillness as of deep dead night, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might On wound these columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they looked not to the misty height And the mighty rocks came bounding down With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown, They came like lauwine hurled From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, With their pikes and massy clubs they brake And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake The field-but not of sheaves: Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. ROME, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Thou sat'st a queen. Thou had'st thy triumphs then Bow'd at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore As gods were seen- As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise; What hast thou left thee now? Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With coloured light. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien; Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, 'midst the forest of the west, The sea, the blue lone sea hath one, One sleeps where southern vines are drest He wrapt his colours round his breast And one, o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus they rest, who played They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth! Alas, for love! if thou wert all And nought beyond, O earth! William Cullen Bryant. Born 1794. He was born AN American poet, son of a physician in Massachusetts. there on 3d November 1794. Bryant, so early as at ten years of age, published translations of the Latin poets; and at thirteen he wrote the "Embargo," famous in its day. He was intended for the bar, but he was so much interested in literary pursuits, that after a short trial he abandoned the law, and became successively editor of several New York papers, to which he contributed pieces of his poetry, some of which are exceedingly beautiful. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his poems. In 1834 he made the tour of Europe. His poems are only moderately appreciated in this country. THE INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. IT is the spot I came to seek My fathers' ancient burial-place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, It is the spot-I know it well Of which our old traditions tell. For here the upland bank sends out I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide; A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not-I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, |