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Till a gateway she discerns, With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic
Then all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur
When they answer to his call; While he treads with footsteps firmer, Leading on from hall to hallAnd, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, "All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Her sweet face from brow to chin, As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over
Pale as death again did prove ;
But he clasped her like a lover,
And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirit sank; Shaped her heart with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady,
And the people loved her much. But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplex'd her night and morn, With a burthen of an honour,
Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew and ever fainter,
As she murmured, "Oh that he Were once more that landscape painter, Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd, and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping, late and early, Walking up, and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town:
And he came to look upon her,
And he looked at her and said,
Bore to earth her body drest
THE bird that soars on highest wing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest; In lark and nightingale we see What honour hath humility.
The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, In deepest adoration bends,
The weight of glory bends him down,
Then most when most his soul ascends. Nearest the throne itself must be The footstool of humility.
The bird that sees a dainty bower,
Made in the tree where she was wont to sit, Wonders and sings-but not his power,
Who made the arbour: this exceeds her But man doth know
The spring whence all things flow.
SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
THE tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
THE MASSACRE OF THE WALDENSES.
AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them, who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not-in thy book record their groans,
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. The moans,
The vales redoubled to the hills and they
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
OH that those lips had language!-Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say "Grieve not my child; chase all thy fears away!"