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Lifting alike thy head
The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm ; thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?
Oh! Love is most like thee,
'Midst Life's dark sea.
And Faith-oh! is not Faith Like thee, too, Lily? springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?
Yes, link'd with such high thoughts,
And peace be wrought:
Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, As from a shrine.
EPITAPH ON MISS DRUMMOND, IN THE CHURCH OF BROADSWORTH, YORKSHIRE. HERE sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;
Grace, that with tenderness and sense combined To form that harmony of soul and face,
Where beauty shines the mirror of the mind.
Such was the maid, that, in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride, Bless’d with each art that owes its charms to truth,
Sunk in her father's fond embrace, and died. He weeps ; 0 venerate the holy tear!
Faith lends her aid to ease affliction's load; The parent mourns his child upon the bier, The Christian yields an angel to his God.
THE NATURAL BEAUTY.
WHETHER Stella's eyes are found
I those charms alone can prize
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL.
COME take up your hats, and away let us haste
So said little Robert, and, pacing along,
Saw the children of earth, and the tenants of air,
And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too,
Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, And brought to the feast his blind brother, the Mole.
And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,
The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see,
From one branch to another, his cobwebs he slung,
LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are
barr'd, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling
heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound
of woe. “What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief
come these bewailing ?” “ A tower is fall’n, a star is set. Alas! alas, for Celin!" Three times they knock, three times they cry, and
wide the doors they throw: Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go: In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the
hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and
flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is
wailing, For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, for Celin!" Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting; around the nobles
stood; The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies
bright and fair Look'd from their latticed windows, the haughty sight
to share ; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are be
wailing, For he was Granada's darling knight. “Alas! alas,
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to