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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,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the country
Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes
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 !"
Fading slowly from his side :
Then before her time she died.
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,
That she wore when she was wed."
Bore to earth her body drest
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; And she that doth most sweetly sing,
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,
Then most when most his soul ascends.
James MontgomeRY. 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
[wit. 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 To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields where still doth sway, The triple tyrant that from these may grow, A hundred-fold, who, having learned thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
Ou 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
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say “ Grieve not my child ; chase all thy fears