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94

AN EPICEDIUM.

Then told us that her husband serv’d

A soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she

Was begging back her way.

I turn'd me to the rich man then,

For silently stood he

"You ask'd me why the poor complain,

And these have answer'd thee."

SOUTHEY.

H

An Epicedium.

E left his home with a bounding heart, For the world was all before him;

And felt it scarce a pain to part,

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him.
He turned him to visions of future years,

The rainbow's hues were round him;

And a father's bodings-a mother's tears

Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.

That mother's cheek is far paler now

Than when she last caressed him :

There's an added gloom on that father's brow,

Since the hour when last he blessed him.

[Though not, perhaps, entitled to a place in the foremost rank of English poets, the name of ROBERT SOUTHEY must ever be dear to the lovers of English literature, as that of a diligent, talented, and honestminded man. With the exception of certain rather violent outpourings of his youthful muse, which drew upon him the strictures of the critics and the ridicule of many, there is nothing among the voluminous works of Southey which the writer need wish expunged. His prose writings are very valuable, especially his biographical works. His longer poems are less successful than his shorter ballads, many of which have become exceedingly popular. Southey was made poet-laureate in 1813, and in his declining days obtained a well-earned pension of £300. He died in 1843, at the age of sixtynine, and was succeeded in the laureateship by Wordsworth.]

AN EPICEDIUM.

Oh! that all human hopes should prove

Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow; And the cankering fears of anxious love

Ever end in ruth and sorrow.

He left his home with a swelling sail,
Of fame and fortune dreaming-
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale,
Or the pennon above him streaming.
He hath reached his goal ;-by a distant wave,
'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ;
And stranger forms bent o'er his grave,
When the last sad rites were paid him.

He should have died in his own loved land,
With friends and kinsmen near him;
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,

With no thought, save heaven, to cheer him.
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound
In the port where the wild winds swept him,
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,
Or the hearts he loved had wept him?

Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Or share the grief that may cloud the days
Of the friends who now deplore him?
No-his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled-

It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of peace is riding.

ALARIC WATTS.

95

She was a Phantom of Delight.

[graphic]

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet ;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death:

1;

The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

WORDSWORTH.

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The poor inhabitant beholds in vain.
The reddening orange and the swelling grain :
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines;
Starves, in the midst of Nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

Oh, Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eased of her load, subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

ADDISON.

M

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