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Spirit of Beauty! thou dost touch the mountains,
And they are shadowed on the pale blue sky Distant and dim, or look like silver fountains
Of light, when snows are there, and stars are high. And the rich sunset clouds, at day's declining,
Grow glorious as bright dreams beneath thy power; And thou art surely in the pale moon's shining,
In the lone grandeur of the midnight hour.
Spirit of Beauty! on the maiden's forehead,
Beneath her braided hair, thy spell hath been ,
But now in holy patience shine serene;
Upon the fading flowers thy glories be,
And earth's most mournful things are full of thee.
Therefore, when fadeth some sweet lip, and paleth
The cheek, and the bright eye grows sunk and dull Whene'er the spirit o'er the clay prevaileth,
We say, we scarce know why, “How beautiful!”
Yet to the very last doth faithful prove,
Of the pure beauty of a woman's love.
Spirit of Beauty! now I know thy dwelling
'Tis not in the cold earth, or sea, or air; The human heart is thy abode, and swelling
Its throbbing pulses, thou art shrined there. From thence thou shinest out, and fling'st thy lightning,
Making even beautiful this world of strife ; Touchest the poets' songs, and fling'st thy brightening
And circling glory o'er the paths of life.
SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN WARRIORS.
Up, on the ancient hills,
Send your voices far and wide,
With the shout of hope and pride.
Up, up, with spear and shield,
And the ringing bugle horn,
Like the reaper to the corn.
Where our valiant fathers trod, And we'll send this shout o'er our native land
“For our country and our God!,"
Oh little dreams the foe
Of the wild hill's hidden powers, And little doth he know
The strength of hearts like ours.
That shuts us from his sight,
From the darkness of the night ;
And shout, while spears and lances gleam, “For our country and our God!”
Onward ! the foeman keeps
His watch and ward in vain ; The spirit that never sleeps
Is hovering o'er the plain;
Oh Liberty ! thou art :
In every true man's heart.
By the tyrant's burning rod, For our hearths, and halls, and hearts disgraced,
“For our country and our God !”
Lo! yonder spreads the plain,
With our dwellings scattered o'er! But, though our path be o'er the slain,
We'll sit by their hearths once more !
By the tyrant they've been sold;
In a redder coin than gold.
And yon crested helmets nod-
“For our country and our God!"
THE POET AND HER POETRY.
(MARY HOWITT is a Member of the Society of Friends, and published jointly with her husband, two volumes of poems. The “Forest Minstrel,” in 1823, and the “Desolation of Eyam," and other poems in 1827. In 1834, she published the “Seven Temptations,” a series of dramatic poems containing much sterling poetry. Her principal forte, however, is in the “ Old Ballad,” in which she surpasses all modern writers. Mrs. Howitt is favourably known to the public by her “ Sketches of Natural History," “ Tales in Verse," and the “Christmas Book,” all of which abound in passages of great poetical beauty.]
EXTRACTS FROM MARY HOWITT'S POEMS.
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.
Buttercups and Daisies
Oh the pretty flowers,
To tell of sunny hours.
While the fields are bare,
Spring up here and there.
Ere the snow-drop peepeth;
Ere the crocus bold; Ere the early primrose
Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on a sunny bank
Buttercups are bright! Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass
Peeps the Daisy white.
Little hardy flowers
Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health
By their mother's door : Purple with the north-wind
Yet alert and bold, Fearing not and caring not,
Though they be a-cold !
What to them is weather !
What are stormy showers ! Buttercups and daisies
Are these human flowers ! He who gave them hardship
And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength,
And patient hearts to bear.
Welcome yellow buttercups,
Welcome daisies white, Ye are in my spirit
Visioned, a delight! Coming ere the spring-time
Of sunny hours to tell Speaking to our hearts of Him
Who doeth all things well.
Not a care hath Marien Lee, Dwelling by the sounding sea ! Her young life's a flowery way :Without toil from day to day, Without bodings for the morrow, Marien was not made for sorrow !
Like the summer-billows wild
Half a league she hears the lay,
Marien, some are rich in gold,
Go, thou sweet one, all day long,
THE USE OF FLOWERS.
God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.