Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,

Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;

But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears;

Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost,

By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed:

O, weep not for those who shall sorrow

Why do we, then, shun death with anx- | ious strife?

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

JOHN LEYDEN.

[1775-1811.]

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR.

SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Whom mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chérical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after time.

Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime

Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widowed heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true!

And in blossomed vale and grove Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow:
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither;
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid's come,
With a brow of care and gloom:
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

O, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime !

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[1785-1806.]

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is
mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
ashes shed.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the

year,

bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Unnoticed and alone,

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky; One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem:
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud, the night was dark,

The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed

The wind that tossed my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;

When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;

93

Shall we build to the purple of Pride

The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside;

And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed,

thrall,

of the shroud.