Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one. To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling.

The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

You lie

One Word is too often profaned.

under a mistake,1

For this is the most civil sort of lie

That can be given to a man's face. I now

Say what I think.

Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.

How wonderful is Death!

Death and his brother Sleep.

Power, like a desolating pestilence,

Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,

Queen Mab. i.

Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.

1 See Swift, page 292.

iii

Heaven's ebon vault

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread

To curtain her sleeping world.

Queen Mab. iv.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.1 A Defence of Poetry.

J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; 2
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which sought through the world is ne'er met with else-
where.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,
Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, Sweet Home. (From the opera of "Clari, the
Maid of Milan.")

SEBA SMITH. 1792-1868.

The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snows she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

1 See Coleridge, page 504.

The Snow Storm.

2 Home is home, though it be never so homely - CLARKE: Parœmiologia, p. 101. (1639.)

JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask.

Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die?
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.

Morning.

The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

Burial of the Dead.

Evening.

FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794-1835.

The stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand,

Amid their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The breaking waves dashed high

The Homes of England.

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ibid.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod :

They have left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship God.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.

They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee:
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount and stream and sea.

The Palm-Tree.

The Graves of a Household.

Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Leaves have their time to fall,

Ibid.

Casabianca.

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Come to the sunset tree!

The Hour of Death.

Oh, call

my brother back to me!

I cannot play alone:

The summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is my brother gone?

-

The Child's First Grief.

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung his tassels forth.

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,
Part of the brim was gone :

Yet still I wore it on.

The Voice of Spring.

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory.

EDWARD EVERETT. 1794-1865.

When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear.

You shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Alaric the Visigoth.

Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was "the scourge of God."

Ibid.

No gilded dome swells from the lowly roof to catch the morning or evening beam; but the love and gratitude of united America settle upon it in one eternal sunshine. From beneath that humble roof went forth the intrepid and unselfish warrior, the magistrate who knew no glory but his country's good; to that he returned, happiest when his work was done. There he lived in noble simplicity, there he died in glory and peace. While it stands, the latest generations of the grateful children of America will make this pilgrimage