This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page truths half so sage, And had he not high honour? With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, In that deep grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again, most wondrous thought! Before the judgment day; And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life O lonely tomb in Moab's land! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him He loved so well.-Dublin Univ. Mag. That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows- The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, R. Browning. LESSON XCII. THE LOST EXPEDITION. Lift-lift, ye mists, from off the silent coast, In vain the North has hid them from our sight: Racked by the savage surges. No funeral torches, with a smoky glare, Shone a farewell upon their shrouded faces ; No monumental pillar, tall and fair, Towers o'er their resting places. But northern streamers flare the long night through No human tears upon their graves are shed— But snow-flakes from the gloomy sky o'erhead, Yet history shrines them with her mighty dead, LESSON XCIII.-THE RAINBOW. A fragment of a rainbow bright An hour ago the storm was here, Grief will be joy, if on its edge Joy will be grief, if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.-Keble. Hood. LESSON XCIV.-ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. This is the month, and this the happy morn, That He our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein, Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons. bright. See how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at His blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize. It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But He, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace: She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng; As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. |