She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:

Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, " Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately priory!"

The stately priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.

And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our Friend!

And Canute (truth more worthy to be known)
From that time forth did for his brows disown
The ostentatious symbol of a crown;
Esteeming earthly royalty
Contemptible and vain.

Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host

When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:

"My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent ; That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working nature's will

Among the nazy streans that backward

went,

And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent;

And now, its task performed, the flood stands still

At the green base of many an inland hill, In placid beauty and sublime content! Such the repose that sage and hero find; Such measured rest the sedulous and good Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the flood

Of ocean, press right on; or gently wind, Neither to be diverted nor withstood,

OR, CANUTE AND ALFred.

THE Danish conqueror, on his royal chair, Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, To aid a covert purpose, cried-"Oh, ye Approaching waters of the deep, that share With this green isle my fortunes, come not where

Your master's throne is set !"-Absurd decree !

A mandate uttered to the foaming sea
Is to its motion less than wanton air.
Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne,
Said to his servile courtiers, "Poor the reach,
The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!
He only is a king, and he alone
Deserves the name (this truth the billows
preach)

Whose everlasting law, sea, earth, and heaven obey.

This just reproof the prosperous Dane
Drew, from the influx of the main,

For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain

At oriental flattery;

U

signed."

"A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on!" What trick of memory to my voice hath brought

This mournful iteration? For though Time, The conqueror, crowns the conquered, on this brow

Planting his favourite silver diadem,
Nor he, nor minister of his-intent

To run before him, hath enrolled me yet, Though not unmenaced, among those who lean

Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight.
O my Antigone, beloved child!
Should that day come-but hark! the birds
salute

The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the

east;

For me, thy natural leader, once again
Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst
A tottering infant, with compliant stoop
From flower to flower supported; but to
curb

Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn,

Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge Of foaming torrent.-From thy orisons Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet

Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy way,

And now precede thee, winding to and fro,
Till we by perseverance gain the top
Of some smooth ridge, whose brink pre-
cipitous

Kindles intense desire for powers withheld From this corporeal frame; whereon who stands,

Is seized with strong incitement to push forth

His arms, as swimmers use, and plungedread thought!

For pastime plunge into the "abrupt abyss,"

Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease!

SEPTEMBER, 1819.

THE Sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky.
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life;
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy;-while I hear
These vespers of another year,
This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,
And earth's precarious days.

But list!--though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant seraphim,
These choristers confide.

UPON THE SAME OCCASION.
DEPARTING summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely caroling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill

Or rival, save the queen of night
Showering down a silver light,
From heaven, upon her chosen favourite!

So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a natural grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
Nor less the homage that was seen to
wait

On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty spnere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere ;-