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The convent lay eke on the pavement

Weeping and herying1 Christes mother dear;

And after that they risen, and forth been went,
And took away this martyr from his bier,
And in a tomb of marble stones clear

Enclosen they his little body sweet:

There he is now God lene2 us for to meet.



Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be ?—
It is the generous spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care:
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, render jd more compassionate;

! Praising. 2 Grant.


Is placable, — because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice;More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress;Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 'T is he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends;Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labors good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows:Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire:Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state;Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all:Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace;But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a lover, and attired With sudden brightness, like a man inspired;And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;Or, if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need:

He who, though thus endued, as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;

Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve;More brave for this, that he hath much to love:

'T is, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity,—

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, — Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won:

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray:Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpassed:Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall and sleep without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name,—

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : — This is the happy warrior; this is he Whom every man in arms should wish to be.


Wodldst thou from each man's coronal select The choicest leaves with which his brows are decked \ w

That, all into one chaplet for thy head Entwined, thou may'st be proudly garlanded?

Look round thee, — is not every thing content,
Having a share, not all the ornament?

The sweetest nightingale is dusky-brown;
While golden-feathered birds no music own.

The ruby long outlasts the scented rose;
But then the ruby no such fragrance knows.

From Egypt Moses did the people lead;
To plant in Canaan must be Joshua's deed.

David might lay all rich materials by;His son first raised the goodly fane on high.

But once and but to One it did compete,

All rays of glory round his head should meet.

SONNET. — Trench.

Ulysses, sailing by the Sirens' isle,

Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them fas

Bind him with many a fetter to the mast,

Lest those sweet voices should their souls beguile,

And to their ruin flatter them, the while

Their homeward bark was sailing swiftly past;

And thus the peril they behind them cast,

Though chased by those weird voices many a mile.

But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used;

No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear,

But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear

The blisses of the gods, their holy joys,

And with diviner melody confused

And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise,



Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers^ the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? so long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,
llisest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

0 dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,

1 worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing, — there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest, — not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake5

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