Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!

Who ever fly'st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,

That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

ROGERS.

CORONACH, OR FUNERAL SONG.

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us come no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing,

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing

When lightning was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners on the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast-
And, hark?—was that the sound of seas?
-A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,

And rises from the earth.
The mother on her first-born son

Looks with a boding eye

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage-altar crown'd,

The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear

The blast that wakes the dead?

MRS. HEMANS.

CHANT OF NUNS AT THE SIEGE OF

VALENCIA.

A SWORD is on the land!

He that bears down young tree and glorious flower,
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power!
Where is the warrior's hand?

Our steps are in the shadow of the grave;
Hear us, we perish! Father, hear, and save!

If, in the days of song,

The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee,
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea,
And joyous hearts were strong;
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave

Must cry,

"We perish!"-Father, hear, and save!

The days of song are fled!

The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by,
But they that linger soon unmourn'd must die;
The dead weep not the dead!

-Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave?
We sink, we perish !—Father, hear, and save!

Helmet and lance are dust!

Is not the strong man wither'd from our eye?
The arm struck down that held our banners high?
Thine is our spirits' trust!

Look through the gathering shadows of the grave!
Do we not perish?--Father, hear, and save!

MRS. HEMANS.

"TELLE EST LA VIE."

(SUCH IS LIFE.)

SEEST thou yon bark? It left our bay
This morn on its adventurous way
All glad and gaily bright:
And many a gale its impulse gave,
And many a gently-heaving wave
Nigh bore it out of sight.

But soon that glorious course was lost,
And treacherous was the deep;

Ne'er thought they there was peril most,
When tempest seemed asleep.

Telle est la vie!

That flower, that fairest flower that grew,
Aye cherish'd by the evening dew,
And cheered by opening day;

That flower which I had spared to cull,
Because it was so beautiful,

And shone so fresh and gay;

Had all unseen a deathly shoot,

The germ of future sorrow;

And there was canker at its root,

That nipp'd it ere the morrow.
Telle est la vie !