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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,
Wordsworth and Rogers much admired this stanza, in a poem on Life, by Mrs. BARBAULD :
Life! we've been long together,
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Choose thine own time,
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,
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,
the forests wide. And now the regal buffalo across the plains I chaseNow track the mountain stream, to find the beaver's lurking-place.
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
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,
What makes the trees so golden ? what decks the mountain-side,
She works, with touch ethereal, by changes strange to see,
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;
O’er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and Aoated slow,
breath of eve that chanced to blow
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
And by the breath of Mercy made to roll
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,