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"KITTY PALMER."

THE SOLE INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD HEAD-STONE IN DULWICH CHURCHYARD.

BUT "Kitty Palmer "—not a word
Beyond, the mossy head-stone's showing;

Not even a date; it seems absurd,

To care for one, one can't be knowing;

Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road I travel often,
And always, when I pass her by,

T'wards Kitty there, my heart will soften.

There's nothing there her age to say;

Young? old? all's hid by time's thick curtain;
Was she a babe, scarce born a day?
A girl? a woman? all's uncertain.
Was she maid, wife, or widow? Well,
That knowledge-we must do without it;
We know there's nothing here to tell,
And that's all we can know about it.

What conquests were hers? Did she reign,
A child, but in her home's affections,
Or, older grown, seek not in vain,

Heart, triumphs, for sweet recollections?

Was she vain? humble? foolish? wise?

Rich? poor? coy? bold? quite dull? or witty! O were you wicked with your eyes,

A plague to men? I hope not, Kitty.

Did children make her smile or sigh,
A blessed or afflicted mother?
Did she at weddings laugh? or try

By death-beds, sobs in vain to smother?
At her grand-children's christenings, eyes,
Half tears-half laughter, did she show now ?
Or weep their flight to Paradise

From cradles here? ah, who can know now !

Yet still my fancy will go on.

About this long-gone Kitty dreaming,
She freed from all we think upon

Of worldly toils and cares and scheming ;
Whatever she was, here her rest,

How pleasantly these green elms shade it!
How calm and throbless is her breast,
However wild or sad life made it!

As here I see her lie, forgot

By all who used to hate or love her,
By all but she who makes this spot
So sweet with thymy turf above her,
I cannot come to picture her
But as a sweet one life could render

With smiles to heaven,-one fit to stir
In me but thoughts serene and tender.

So I think of her-think her fair,
And, on the painted sunshine gazing,
See laughing eyes and golden hair,
All beauty that one should be praising;
A happy girlish wife, before

My sight she lives, to fancy giving

Content more calm-more sweet, since more Undimmed by fears-than do the living.

For we are things that know no peace,
Poor slaves of care and toil and pleasure,
Of wants and hopes that never cease;
For calm content, we have no leisure;
But hers no more are sin and death,

All we must fear-with which we've striven;
Earth's must be still unquiet breath;

She breathes but Heaven's, we trust-forgiven.

All they who knew her, too, have passed
From time; all broken heart-ties mended.
They have rejoin'd her where at last
All tears are dried, all sorrows ended;
What matters then that here her name
Alone is written! she is faring
As well as most who cared for fame,
For whom now not a soul is caring.

Ah, you who here are writing this,.
And dream perhaps in future story
Your name may live-who, catch or miss,
Snatch at a little gleam of glory,

Is it so much that men should know

Your words years hence? nay, man, breathe calmer! Will you not sleep as well, below

The grass, forgot, like "Kitty Palmer ?”

BENNETT.

HYMN ON THE SEASONS.

[I conclude this series of "Select Readings" with a "Hymn" from one whose "Seasons" ever have been, and will be, loved and admired by all the world.-Editor.]

THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And
every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year:
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks,
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,

By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales,
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter awful thou! with clouds and storms
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled,
Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming a harmonious whole, That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join, every living soul
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and ardent raise
One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,

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