On the flush'd bosom of the West; and then
Some princely fountain of unborrow'd light,
Arcturus, or the Dogstar, or the seven
That circle without setting round the pole.
Is it for nothing at the midnight hour,
That solemn silence sways the hemisphere,
And ye must listen long before ye hear
The cry of beasts, or fall of distant stream,
Or breeze among the tree-tops-while the stars
Like guardian spirits watch the slumbering earth?

A SPIRITUAL AND WELL-ORDERED MIND

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.

HYMN FOR ALL-SAINTS DAY IN THE MORNING.

STAND up before your God

You army bold and bright,

Saints, martyrs, and confessors,

In your robes of white;

The church below doth challenge you
To an act of praise;

Ready with mirth in all the earth

Her matin song to raise.

Stand up before your God

In beautiful array,

Make ready all your instruments

The while we mourn and pray; For we must stay to mourn and pray Some prelude to our song;

The fear of death has clogg'd our breath And our foes are swift and strong.

But ye before your God

Are hushed from all alarm,

Out through the grave and gate of death
Ye have past into the calm;
Your fight is done, your victory won,
Through peril, and toil, and blood;
Among the slain on the battle plain
We buried ye where ye stood.
Stand up before your God,

Although we cannot hear
The new song he hath taught you
With our fleshly ear;

Our bosoms burn that hymn to learn,
And from the church below

E'en while we sing, on heavenward wing
Some happy souls shall go.

Ye stand before your God,

But we press onward still,
The soldiers of his army,

The servants of his will:
A captive band in foreign land
Long ages we have been;

But our dearest theme and our fondest dream Is the home we have not seen.

We soon shall meet our God,

The hour is wafting on,

The day-spring from on high hath risen,
And the night is spent and gone;

The light of earth it had its birth

And it shall have its doom;

The sons of earth they are few in birth,
But many in the tomb.

A DOUBT.

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.

affections. They are free, spirited, animated by a generous, joyous feeling, yet feminine, quiet, tranquillizing.

THE MOURNERS.

[gone.

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.
There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"
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.

Miss Cook resides in London, where she established a Journal, which bore her name, and which she conducted weekly from 1849 to 1854, when it was given up, on account of ill health. She has published two volumes A literary pension of £100 was

of verse.

lay.

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,
Though he went by the grave where his first love
"Ha! ha!" 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 ey
depart!".

46

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 presed:
He praised his song, he echo'd his jest;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found ma
Made a blank of the name so prized of '*6
See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried per
How bravely the bonds of friendship Last!"
But the orphan child! Oh, where was sie
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 stili;
And her smother'd prayer was yet heard top
A speedy home in the self-same grave.

Hers was the love all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;

Hers was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.

Death linger'd there, and paused awhile;
But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find,
But a mother leaves no equal behind."
And the kindest blow Death ever gave

Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.

THE WREATHS.

Wпoм do we crown with the laurel leaf?
The hero god, the soldier chief,
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel,
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel,

Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes,
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes:
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath,
Pluck'd from the gory field of death?

Whom do we crown with summer flowers?
The young and fair in their happiest hours.
But the buds will only live in the light
Of a festive day or a glittering night;
We know the vermil tints will fade-
That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid:
And who can prize the coronal
That's form'd to dazzle, wither and fall?

Who wears the cypress, dark and drear?
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear :
The gloomy branch for ever twines
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines.
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart,
That hath seen its dearest hopes depart.
Oh, who can like the chaplet band
That is wove by melancholy's hand?

Where is the ivy circlet found?

On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd
In the purple stream--who drinks and laughs
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quafls.
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown,
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down ;
But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl
It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul

But there's a green and fragrant leaf
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief:
'Tis the purest amaranth springing below,
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow:
It is not the right of the monarch or lord,
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword;
For the lowliest temples gather a ray
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay.

Oh, beautiful bay! I worship thee

I homage thy wreath-I cherish thy tree;
And of all the chaplets fame may deal,
'Tis only to this one I would kneel:
For as Indians fly to the banian branch,
When tempests lower and thunders launch,
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life.

HE LED HER TO THE ALTAR.

HE led her to the altar,

But the bride was not his chosen : He led her, with a hand as cold

As though its pulse had frozen. Flowers were crush'd beneath his tread,

A gilded dome was o'er him;

But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale, As the marble steps before him.

His soul was sadly dreaming

Of one he had hoped to cherish;

Of a name and form that the sacred rites,
Beginning, told must perish.

He gazed not on the stars and gems

Of those who circled round him; But trembled as his lips gave forth The words that falsely bound him.

Many a voice was praising,

Many a hand was proffer'd; But mournfully he turn'd him

From the greeting that was offer'd.
Despair had fix'd upon his brow

Its deepest, saddest token;
And the bloodless cheek, the stifled sigh,
Betray'd his heart was broken.

A LOVE SONG.

DEAR Kate, I do not swear and rave,
Or sigh sweet things as many can;
But though my lip ne'er plays the slave,
My heart will not disgrace the mun.
I prize thee-ay, my bonnie Kate,
So firmly fond this breast can be,
That I would brook the sternest fate
If it but left me health and thee.

I do not promise that our life

Shall know no shade on heart or brow; For human lot and mortal strife

Would mock the falsehood of such vow. But when the clouds of pain and care Shall teach us we are not divine, My deepest sorrows thou shalt share, And I will strive to lighten thine. We love each other, yet perchance

The murmurs of dissent may rise; Fierce words may chase the tender glance, And angry flashes light our eyes. But we must learn to check the frown, To reason rather than to blame; The wisest have their faults to own, And you and I, girl, have the same. You must not like me less, my Kate, For such an honest strain as this;

I love thee dearly, but I hate

The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss." There's truth in all I've said or sung; I woo thee as a man should woo; And though I lack a honey'd tongue, Thou 'It never find a breast more true.

THE FREE.

THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep
In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep;
All fresh and strong they foam along,
Waking the rocks with their cataract song.
My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance,
While I watch the waters dash and dance;
I burn with glee, for I love to see
The path of any thing that's free.

The skylark springs with dew on his wings,
And up in the arch of heaven he sings
Trill-la-trill-la, oh, sweeter far

Than the notes that come through a golden bar.
The joyous bay of a hound at play,
The caw of a rook on its homeward way-
Oh! these shall be the music for me,
For I love the voices of the free.

The deer starts by with his antlers high,
Proudly tossing his head to the sky;
The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein,
With streaming nostrils and flying mane;
The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird,
As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard.
Oh! these shall be the creatures for me,
For my soul was form'd to love the free.
The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave,
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave;
And the one whose lot is the desert spot
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot.
The thrall and state at the palace gate
Are what my spirit has learnt to hate:
Oh! the hills shall be a home for me,

For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

[sighs;

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with
"T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day.
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
"I was there she nursed me, 't was there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

MY GRAVE.

SWEET is the ocean grave, under the azure wave, Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes; Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding-sheet,

Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs. Let the proud soldier rest, wrapt in his gory vest, Where he may happen to fall on his shield, To sink in the glory-strife was his first hope in life; Dig him his grave on the red battle-field. Lay the one great and rich in the strong cloister Give him his coffin of cedar and gold; [niche, Let the wild torch-light fall, flouting the velvet pall,

Lock him in marble vault, darksome and cold. But there's a sunny hill, fondly remember'd still, Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree: Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf, There be the resting-place chosen by me! Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there,

Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask

• Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!" There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter

MR SIMMONS was for a uumber of years a contributor to Black wood's Magazine, and in

THE DISINTERMENT.

LOST Lord of Song! who grandly gave
Thy matchless timbrel for the spear-
And, by old Hellas' hallow'd wave

Died at the feet of Freedom-hear!
Hear-from thy lone and lowly tomb,
Where mid thy own "inviolate Isle,"
Beneath no miuster's marble gloom,

No banner's golden smile,

Far from the swarming city's crowd,
Thy glory round thee for a shroud,
Thou sleepest, the pious rustic's tread
The only echo o'er thy bed,

Save, few and faint, when o'er the foam
The pilgrims of thy genius come,
From distant earth, with tears of praise,
The homage of their hearts to raise,
And curse the country's very name,
Unworthy of thy sacred dust,
That draws such lustre from thy fame,

That heaps such outrage on thy bust!
Wake from the dead-and lift thy brow
With the same scornful beauty now,
As when beneath thy shafts of pride
Envenom'd cant-the Python-died!
Prophet no less than bard, behold
Matured the eventful moment, told
In those divine predictive words

Pour'd to the lyre's transcendent chords:-
"If e'er his awful ashes can grow cold—
But no, their embers soon shall burst their mould--
-France shall feel the want

Of this last consolation, though but scant.
Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones,
To pile above a pyramid of thrones!"
If, then, from thy neglected bier,

One humblest follower thou canst hear,

O mighty Master! rise and flee,

Swift as some meteor bold and bright, With me thy cloud, attending thee,

Across the dusky tracts of night,

To where the sunset's latest radiance shone
O'er Afric's sea interminably lone.

Below that broad unbroken sea

Long since the sultry sun has dropp'd, And now in dread solemnity

-As though its course Creation stopp'd One wondrous hour, to watch the birth Of deeds portentous unto earthThe moonless midnight far and wide, Solidly black, flings over all

1813 he published a volume of poems entitied Legends and Lyrics.

The giant waste of waveless tide
Her melancholy pall,

Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd,
Each ray of heaven's high face debar,
Save, on the margin of the world

Where leans yon solitary star,
Large, radiant, restless, tinting with far smile
The jagged cliffs of a gray barren Isle.
Hark! o'er the waves distinctly swell
Twelve slow vibrations of a bell!
And out upon the silent ear

At once ring bold and sharply clear,
With shock more startling than if thunder
Had split the slumbering earth asunder,
The iron sounds of crow and bar;

Ye scarce may know from whence they come, Whether from island or from star,

Both lie so hush'd and dumb!

On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep,
Shaking long-buried kings from sleep-
Up, up! ye sceptred Jailers-ho!

Your granite heaped his head in vain;
The very grave gives back your foe-
Dead Cæsar wakes again!
The nations, with a voice as dread

As that which once in Bethany
Burst to the regions of the dead,

And set the loved-one free,
Have cried, "Come forth!" and lo! again,
To smite the hearts and eyes of men
With the old awe he once instill'd
By many an unforgotten field,
Napoleon's look shall startle day-

That look that, where its anger fell,
Scorch'd empires from the earth away
As with the blasts of hell!

Up-from the dust, ye sleepers, ho!

By the blue Danube's stately waveFrom Berlin's towers-from Moscow's snow, And Windsor's gorgeous grave! Come-summon'd by the omnific power, The spirit of this thrilling hour

And, stooping from yon craggy height,

Girt by each perish'd satellite,

Each cunning tool of kingly terror

Who served your reigns of fraud and error,
Behold, where with relentless lock

Ye chain'd Prometheus to his rock,
And, when his tortured bosom ceased
Your vulture's savage beak to feast,
Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell,

And built and barr'd his coffin down,