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Fold him in his Country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley !
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he he cannot know :
Lay him low !

Leave him to God's watching eye,
Trust him to the Hand that made him ;
Mortal love weeps idly by:
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he he cannot know :
Lay him low

JEAN INGELow, one of the most original writers of our age, has acquired distinguished fame as a poetess. In her dramatic tale of High Tide, we have the following nervous lines:—

I sat and spun within the doore, my thread brake off, I raised myne
eyes,
The level sun, like ruddy ore, lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth—
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
“Cushal Cusha Cusha" calling, ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song, “Cusha Cusha " all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking song:—

“Cusha Cusha Cusha" calling, “for the dews will soon be falling; Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, mellow, mellow ;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow ;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and sollow, from the clovers lift your head;

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Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty to the milking shed.”

: :: ::

Lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, and uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre's breast flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drove, the heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : The feet had hardly time to flee before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, that ebbe swept out the
flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! to manye more than myne and me ;
But each will mourn his own (she saith).
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife Elizabeth.

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The following lyric illustrates the pictorial beauty of her style, no less felicitously —

When the dimpled water slippeth,

Full of laughter on its way,

And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves atremble
Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble
Veils of gauze most clear and white;
And the sunbeams fall and flatter
Woodland moss and branches brown,
And the glossy finches chatter
Up and down, up and down :
Though the heart be not attending,
Having music of her own,
On the grass, through meadows wending,
It is sweet to walk alone.

Thus have we reached the terminus of our pleasure excursion through the glorious realms of Poesy. All along our course, has the bright sunshine of song beautified and gladdened our hearts. Right pleasurable, indeed, have been

“Those lyric feasts,
Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad!”

In after-time shall we not recall with delight, from the storehouse of memory, the rich treasures of exalted thought and exquisite imagery which we have so lavishly enjoyed

“Blessings be with them and eternal praise,
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delights, by heavenly lays!”

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For not only are they the “unacknowledged legislators of the world,” they are among the foremost of its benefactors; and their magic numbers, flowing from “the happiest and best moments of the best and happiest minds,” should be thus authoritative. Let us, then, ever cherish with affectionate regard the rich legacy they have bequeathed to us, as lares and penates near each household hearth. “True poems are caskets,” wrote Irving, “which enclose in a small compass the wealth of the language, its family jewels.” Thus should we prize them, even as we do the precious metals, nay, more—since gold will leave us at the grave, but the wealth of the mind

“ Unto the heavens with us we have '''

Such glowing and beautiful utterances as the minstrels have left us find a ready response in the common heart of humanity, because they are the expression of its universal thought. Nor ever will their sweet voices be hushed or unheeded, in a world which the tuneful throng have made all resonant with the rich melodies of the ages.

“For doth not song to the whole world belong?
Is it not given wherever tears can fall,
Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow,
Or mirth or sadness mingle as they flow—
A heritage for all?”

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