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Like in loveliness were ye,
By a like lamented doom,
Hurried to an early tomb.
While together, spirits blest,
Here your earthly relics rest,
Fellow angels shall ye be
In the angelic company.

Henry, too, hath here his part;
At the gentle Seymour's side,
With his best beloved bride,
Cold and quiet, here are laid
The ashes of that fiery heart.
Not with his tyrannic spirit
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit;
No, by Fisher's hoary head,—

By More, the learned and the good,—

By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood,

By the life so basely shed

Of the pride of Norfolk's line,

By the axe so often red,
By the fire with martyrs fed,
Hateful Henry, not with thee
May her happy spirit be!

And here lies one whose tragic name A reverential thought may claim;

That murder'd Monarch, whom the grave,
Revealing its long secret, gave
Again to sight, that we might spy
His comely face and waking eye!
There, thrice fifty years, it lay,
Exempt from natural decay,
Unclosed and bright, as if to say,
A plague, of bloodier, baser birth,
Than that beneath whose rage he bled,
Was loose upon our guilty earth ;-
Such aweful warning from the dead,
Was given by that portentous eye;
Then it closed eternally.

Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground;
Even in your immortal spheres,
What fresh yearnings will ye feel,
When this earthly guest appears!
Us she leaves in grief and tears;
But to you will she reveal
Tidings of old England's weal;
Of a righteous war pursued,
Long, through evil and through good,
With unshaken fortitude;

Of peace, in battle twice achieved;
Of her fiercest foe subdued,
And Europe from the yoke reliev'd,
Upon that Brabantine plain!
Such the proud, the virtuous story,
Such the great, the endless glory
Of her father's splendid reign!
He who wore the sable mail,
Might at this heroic tale,
Wish himself on earth again.

One who reverently, for thee,
Raised the strain of bridal verse,
Flower of Brunswick! mournfully
Lays a garland on thy herse.



O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence so wise,

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.


Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.


I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize :

And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree

Can emblems see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after time.


Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.


And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.


And as when all the summer trees are secn
So bright and green,

The Holly leaves a sober hue display

Less bright than they,

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?


So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.


It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.


She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round


Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
'Who fell in the great victory.


'I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,' said he,
'Were slain in that great victory.'


'Now tell us what 't was all about,'
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
'Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.'


'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
'Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But every body said,' quoth he,
'That 't was a famous victory.


'My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.


'With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.


'They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won ;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

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