shade,

His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-O my daughter!"

"T was vain;-the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

HORACE SMITH.

[1779-1849.]

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,

And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle As a libation.

Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly

Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless

eye,

Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high.

solemn, Which God hath planned;

beauty

The floor of nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive

duty

Your forms create!

Artist,

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all!

that swingeth,

And tolls its perfume on the passing

for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids

me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope?

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido

pass; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

lect,

tion!

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's

fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Since first thy form was in this box

extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations;

The Roman Empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations,

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,

While not a fragment of thy flesh has

crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,

When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold! A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled;

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face?

What was thy name and station, age and race?

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!" "Lord, bless us!" echo cries; "Amen!" the breezes murmur low; "Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts The proud with pangs are paying, But here, O God of earth and heaven! The humble heart is praying.

How softly, in the pauses

Of song, re-echoed wide,
The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,
O'er rill and river glide!
With evil deeds of evil men

The affrighted land is ringing;
But still, O Lord, the pious heart
And soul-toned voice are singing!

Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth:
"Woe to the oppressor, woe!"
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun
And saddened flowers below;
So frowns the Lord! -but, tyrants, ye
Deride his indignation,
And see not in the gathered brow
Your days of tribulation!

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher!
The tempest bursts above:
God whispers in the thunder; hear
The terrors of his love!

On useful hands and honest hearts

The base their wrath are wreaking; But, thanked be God! they can't prevent The storm of heaven from speaking.

CORN-LAW HYMN.

LORD! call thy pallid angel,

The tamer of the strong! And bid him whip with want and woe The champions of the wrong! O, say not thou to ruin's flood, "Up, sluggard! why so slow?"

But alone let them groan, The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse, Where millions curse them now!

No; wake not thou the giant

Who drinks hot blood for wine, And shouts unto the east and west,

In thunder-tones like thine, Till the slow to move rush all at once, An avalanche of men,

143

While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men!

REGINALD HEBER.

[1783-1826.]

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE.
If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,

My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor wild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they

say,

Across the dark-blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee!

Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,

A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw within the moonlight in his

room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

then,

Write me as one that loves his fellowmen."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening