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That turns his fevered eyes around—“My mother! where's my

mother ?As if such tender words and looks could come from any other !

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him ; Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore

him! Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep, pathetic eyes, which closed in death to save him.

Thus! oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking ;
Or felt the new, immortal throb of soul from body parted ;
But felt those eyes alone, and knew “My Saviour ! not deserted !”

Wordsworth and Rogers much admired this stanza, in a poem on Life, by Mrs. BARBAULD :

Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through' cloudy weather ;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear ;
Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time,
Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime

Bid me good-morning.

Her beautiful lines, on the Death of the Virtuous, were signally illustrated by her own tranquil decease :

Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies ! when sinks a righteous soul

to rest! How softly beam the closing eyes, how gently heaves the expiring

breast ! So fades a summer cloud away, so sinks the gale when storms are So gently shuts the eye of day, so dies the wave along the shore. Triumphant smiles the victor brow, fanned by some angel's purple



Where is, O Grave ! thy victory now and where, insidious Death,

thy sting?

Here are Lover's beautiful lines, founded upon the Irish conceit, that when a child smiles in its sleep it is talking with the angels :

A baby was sleeping, -its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me !"

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; “Oh, blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee !

“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me; And

say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy father, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee !” The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept for joy her babe's father to see : And closely caressing her child with a blessing,

Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!”

Our own poet PEABODY's description of The Backwoodsman is very graphic and picturesque :

The silent wilderness for me! where never sound is heard,
Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot, and the fitting wing of bird,
Or its low and interrupted note, or the deer's quick, crackling tread,
And the swaying of the forest boughs, as the wind moves overhead.
Alone (how glorious to be free !), my good dog at my side,
My rifle hanging on my arm,


the forests wide. And now the regal buffalo across the plains I chaseNow track the mountain stream, to find the beaver's lurking-place.

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My palace, built by God's own hand, the world's fresh prime hath

seen, While stretch its living halls away, pillared and roofed with green. My music is the wind, that now pours loud its swelling bars, Now lulls in dying cadences; my festal lamps are stars.


And in these solitary haunts, while slumbers every tree
In night and silence, God himself seems nearer unto me.
I feel His presence in these shades, like the embracing air,
And as my eyelids close in sleep, my heart is hushed in prayer.

STERLING, the friend of Carlyle, who placed a high estimate on his genius, has not left us a large poetic legacy ; but here is one of his poems, full of music and cheerful philosophy :

Earth, of man the bounteous mother, feeds him still with corn and


He who best would aid a brother, shares with him these gifts divine. Many a power within her bosom, noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; Hence are seed, and leaf and blossom, golden ear and clustered

wreath. These to swell with strength and beauty is the royal task of man ; Man's a king ; his throne is duty, since his work on earth began. Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—these, like man, are fruits of

earth; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, all from dust receive their

birth. Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures, earthly goods for earthly These are Nature's ancient pleasures; these her child from her


derives. What the dream but vain rebelling, if from earth we sought to

flee? 'Tis our stored and ample dwelling ; 'tis from it the skies we see. Wind and frost, and hour and season, land and water, sun and

shade, Work with these, as bids thy reason, for they work thy toil to aid. Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness! man himself is all a seed; Hope and hardness, joy and sadness—slow the plant to ripeness lead.

Ernest Jones is the author of the following stanzas; and very beautiful they are :

What stands upon the highland ? what walks across the rise,
As though a starry island were sinking down the skies?


What makes the trees so golden ? what decks the mountain-side,
Like a veil of silver folden round the white brow of a bride?
The magic moon is breaking, like a conqueror from the east,
The waiting world awaking to a golden fairy feast.

She works, with touch ethereal, by changes strange to see,
The cypress, so funereal, to a lightsome fairy tree;
Black rocks to marble turning, like palaces of kings;
On ruined windows burning a festal glory Aings ;
The desert halls uplighting, with falling shadows glance,
Like courtly crowds uniting for the banquet or the dance:
With ivory wand she numbers the stars along the sky,
And breaks the billows' slumbers with a love-glance of her eye ;
Along the corn-fields dances, brings bloom upon

the sheaf; From tree to tree she glances, and touches leaf by leaf; Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; through their half-closed eyelids

gleams; With her white torch through the meadows lights the shy deer to

the streams. The magic moon is breaking, like a conqueror from the east, And the joyous world partaking of her golden fairy feast !

PROFESSOR Wilson is the author of the following beautiful sonnet :

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O’er the still radiance of the lake below;

Tranquil its spirit seemed, and Aoated slow,
Even in its very motion there was rest ;

breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West:

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,

And by the breath of Mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,

Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

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