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146 ADORATION OF DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS.
But, O, of all delightful sounds,
The sweetest is the voice of love
ADORATION OF THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS.-T. Moore.
THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
I'll seek by day some glade unknown,
Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look,
I'll read thy anger in the rock
Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
There's nothing dark, below, above,
CHARADE. — By Praed.
COME from my First, ay, come!
For the battle-hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as thy father fought!
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;-
Toll ye my Second, toll!
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; So take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole,
Ay, call him by his name!
THE wintry west extends his blast,
And bird and beast in covert rest,
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,
Let others fear, to me more dear
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want, (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 149
LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY. - Watts.
Ir was a brave attempt! adventurous he
Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land,
And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things.
The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies;
She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight,
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.- Mrs. Hemans.
AND was thy home, pale, withered thing,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns, in golden light, e'en now
Look o'er the poet's lovely grave; Those winds are breathing soft, but thou, Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
THE MAY QUEEN.
The flowers o'er Posilippo's* brow
May cluster in their purple bloom,
Thy place is void,—O, none on earth,
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain!
Another leaf ere now hath sprung
On the green stem which once was thine ;
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?
THE MAY QUEEN. - Tennyson.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the blithe New Year;
*A mountain skirting the shores of the Bay of Naples, on one of the most beautiful heights of which stands the tomb of Virgil.