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Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
The nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,1 The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart;-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

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And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.
William Cowper: 1731-1800.
(See page 7.)

1 vesture's tissued flowers--flowers woven in the pattern of the

dress.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

(From "The Troubadour.")

My mother's grave, my mother's grave!
Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,
And drowsily the banners wave

O'er her that was so chaste and fair;
Yea, love is dead, and memory faded;
But when the dew is on the brake.

And silence sleeps on earth and sea,
And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh, then she cometh back to me,
In her cold beauty darkly shaded!

I cannot guess her face or form!
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm

To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!
I only feel that she is here,

And that we meet, and that we part, And that I drink within mine ear,

And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet still voice and soft caresses.

Not in the waking thought by day,
Not in the sightless dream by night,
Do the mild tones and glances play,

Of her who was my cradle's light!
But in some twilight of calm weather
She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,

And all the passion of a dream, Linked in a golden spell together!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed: 1802-1839.

(See page 140.)

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.1

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.2
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.3

1 i.e., the only other sounds are occasioned by the breeze

among the leaves.

2 humlet fanes-village churches.

3 eaves-projecting edges of roofs,

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans: 1793-1835

(See page 42.)

TO BROTHER JONATHAN.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak

That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke,-
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true,
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton too!

I know your heart, an open heart,
I read your mind and will,

A greyhound ever on the start

To run for honour still;

And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done,

I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you and I are one!

There's nothing foreign in your face
Nor strange upon your tongue,
You come not of another race,
From baser lineage sprung ;
No, brother! though away you ran,
As truant boys will do,

Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers fathered you.

Time was,-it wasn't long ago,
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line;

Or tripp'd to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess,

And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,-'twas long ago,
Among the Roses fought,
Or charging fierce the Paynim foe1
Did all knight-errants ought :
As Cavalier or Puritan

Together prayed or swore,
For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore!

There lived a man, a man of men,
A king on fancy's throne,
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own;
And, if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you,

For Shakspere, happy Jonathan,
Is yours and Britain's too!

There was another glorious name,
A poet for all time,

Who gained the double-first of fame,
The beautiful-sublime;

And let us hide him as we can,

More miserly than pelf,

Our Yankee brother Jonathan

Cries halves in Milton's self!

Well, well; and every praise of old,
That makes us famous still,

You would be just, and may be bold
To share it if you will,-

1 Paynim foe-the Turks in Palestine, at the Crusades.

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