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, Is so great a lord as he. 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. And a gentle consort made he, And the people loved her much. Unto which she was not born. 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, Bore to earth her body drest TENNYSON. HUMILITY. THE bird that soars on highest wing, 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. 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 The spring whence all things flow. [wit. HERBERT. SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. THE tear down childhood's cheek that flows, When the next summer breeze comes by 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 MILTON. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 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!" |