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No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow ost the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor;

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,

Await, alike, the inevitable tour :-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud ! impute to these the fault,
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?-

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust-
Or flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;-

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed, alone, Their growing virtues,—but their crimes confined ;

Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne; And shut the gate of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide ; To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame;

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame!

Yet, even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture, decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ;

And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die,

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing-lingering look behind ?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Even from the tomb, the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes, live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost, in these lines, their artless talę relate,

By chance and lonely Contemplation led, To wander in the gloomy walks of fate;

Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around, Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;

In still small accents whispering from the ground A grateful earnest of eternal peace !

No more, with nature and thyself at strife, Give anxious cares and endless wishes room,

But thro' the cool sequestered vale of life Pursue the noisless tenor of thy doom.

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STRANGER, if thou has learnt a truth which needs
Experience more than reason, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery; and hast known
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares
To tire thee of it-enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balne
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pain'd thee in the haunts of men,
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. Misery is wed
To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes
Of undissembled gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches, is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while, below,
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade
Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam

That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch, thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

CXI. GERTRUDE.--Mrs. Hemans. The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing moments, with the most heroic fidelity. Her own sufferings, and those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago at Haarlem, in a book entitled “Gertrude Von der W'art, or fidelity unto Death." Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed,

All that she loved was there.
The night was round her, clear and cold,

The holy heaven above;

Its pale stars watching to behold

The night of earthly love. “ And bid me not depart,” she cried,

“My Rudolph ! say not so ! This is no time to quit thy side,

Peace, peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear

When death is on thy brow ?
The world !--what means it ?-mine is here-

I will not leave thee now?
“ I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss,
Doubt not its memory's living power

To strengthen me through this !
And thou, mine honored love and true,
· Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed Heaven in view,

Whose rest shall soon be won.”
And were not these high words to flow

From Woman's breaking heart?
-Through all that night of bitterest wo

She bore her lofty part:
But oh! with such a freezing eye,

With such a curdling cheek--Love, love ! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!
The winds rose high-but with them rose

Her voice that he might hear;
Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near :
While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer

Forth on the rushing storm.
She wiped the death-damps from his brow,

With her pale hands and soft,

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