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Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled

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 !
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain;
O weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair!

One look, one last look to the cots and the towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers ;
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the sultan of Spain;
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraino.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, the dance of thy maids ;

To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees !

Farewell and for ever! The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave;
Our hearths we abandon-our lands we resign-
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.



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,
Receives him in the name of France :

Receiveth whom?-The dead!

Was he not buried deep

In island-cavern drear,
Girt by the sounding ocean surge?

How came that sleeper here?

Was there no rest for him

Beneath a peaceful pall,
That thus he brake his stony tomb

Ere the strong angel's call ?
Hark! hark! the requiem swells,

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;
The imperial crown, with jewels bright,

Upon his ashes cold,
While round those columns proud

The blazoned banners wave,
That on a hundred fields he won

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?
Oh, when the cry of that spectral host

Like a rushing blast shall be,
What will thine answer be to them?
And what thy God's to thee?



SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.

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Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

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;

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