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Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent,
pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
MONCONTOUR. Oh, weep for Moncontour! O weep for the hour When the children of darkness and evil had power; When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.
O weep for Moncontour! O weep for the slain !
One look, one last look to the cots and the towers,
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
Farewell and for ever! The priest and the slave
A BUTTERFLY AT A CHILD'S GRAVE.
A BUTTERFLY basked on an infant's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow; “Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye? Where she of the bright and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low."
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track: “I was a worm till I won my wings, And she whom thou mourn’st, like a seraph singsWould thou call the blest one back ?"
A KING is standing there,
And, with uncovered head,
Receiveth whom?-The dead!
Was he not buried deep
In island-cavern drear,
How came that sleeper here?
Was there no rest for him
Beneath a peaceful pall,
Ere the strong angel's call ?
A deep soul-thrilling strain ! An echo, never to be heard
By mortal ear again.
A requiem for the chief
Whose fiat millions slew, The soaring eagle of the Alps,
The crushed at Waterloo ; The banished who returned,
The dead who rose again, And rode in his shroud the billows proud
To the sunny banks of Seine.
They laid him there in state,
That warrior strong and bold;
Upon his ashes cold,
The blazoned banners wave,
With the heart's blood of the brave.
Mysterious one, and proud !
In the land where shadows reign,
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those
Who at thy nod were slain?
Like a rushing blast shall be,
SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above; But not less, in the bright flowerets under us,
Stands the revelation of His love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation
In these stars oí earth-these golden flowers.
And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Seeks, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal Being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay;
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes blossoming at night!
These in flowers and men are more than seeming ;
Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born : Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But on old cathedrals high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;