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As on the front Of some cathedral pile, ranged orderly, Rich tabernacles throng of sainted men, Each in his highday robes magnificent, Some tipp'd with crowns, the church's nursing sires, And some, the hallow'd temple's serving-men, With crosiers deep emboss'd, and comely staves Resting aslant upon their reverend form, Guarding the entrance well; while round the walls, And in the corbels of the massy nave, All circumstances of living child and man And heavenly influence, in parables Of daily passing forms is pictured forth : So all the beautiful and seemly things That crowd the earth, within the humble soul Have place and order due; because there dwells In the inner temple of the holy heart The presence of the spirit form above: There are his tabernacles; there his rites Want not their due performance, nor sweet strains Of heavenly music, nor a daily throng Of worshippers, both those who minister In service fix’d—the mighty principles And leading governors of thought; and those Who come and go, the troop of fleeting joys— All hopes, all sorrows, all that enter in Through every broad receptacle of sense.

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I KNow not how the right may be:—
But I give thanks whene'er I see
Down in the green slopes of the West
Old Glastonbury's tower'd crest.
I know not how the right may be:—
But I have oft had joy to see,
By play of chance, my road beside,
The cross on which the Saviour died.
I know not how the right may be:—
But I loved once a tall elm tree,
Because between its boughs on high
That cross was open'd in the sky.
I know not how the right may be:—
But I have shed strange tears to see,
Passing an unknown town at night,
In some warm chambers full of light,
A mother and two children fair
Kneeling with lifted hands at prayer.
I know not how it is—my boast
Of Reason seems to dwindle down ;
And my mind seems down-argued most
By freed conclusions not her own.

I know not how it is—unless
Weakness and strength are near allied ;
And joys which most the spirit bless
Are farthest off from earthly pride.

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THE MOURNERS.

KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl,
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear:
He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain. [gone.
“There's no joy,” cried he, “now my dearest is
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on 1"

The sire was robb'd of his eldest born,
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round, as good and fair,
But none seem’d so bright as the breathless heir.
“My hopes are crush'd,” was the father's cry;
“Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die.”
The valued friend was snatch'd away,
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair,
“Oh! he sleeps in the tomb—let me follow him
there !”

A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone:
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of wo,
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light,
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Breathing where none might hear or see—
“Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be.”

Death smiled as he heard each earnest word:
“Nay, nay,” said he, “be this work deferr'd;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,
And, if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then thou shalt share the rest
Of the being now pluck'd from thy doating breast;
Then, if thou cravest the coffin and pall
As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall.”
And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.

But the lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol to adore,
Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before :
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,
As he led the way for the bridal crowd;
And his eyes still kept their joyous ray, [lay.
Though he went by the grave where his first love
“Ha! hal” shouted Death, “’t is passing clear
That I am a guest not wanted here !”
The father was seen in his children's games,
Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names!
And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms:
His voice rung out in the merry noise,
He was first in all their hopes and joys;
He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
“Are ye ready ?” cried Death, as he raised his dart.
“Nay! nay !” shriek'd the father; “in mercy
depart"
The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherish’d with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side; -
His hand the hand of that stranger press'd ;
He praised his song, he echo'd his jest;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
“See see " cried Death, as he hurried past,
“How bravely the bonds of friendship last!”

But the orphan child ! Oh, where was she 4
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the churchyard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unheal’d still:
And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.

Hers was the love all holy and strong;

Hers was the sorrow fervent and long ;

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