Far other vision steals upon the heart :-
"Tis woman in her holiest, happiest cares;
For gems, see tears of sweet devotion start;

Her robe, nor proudly, nor unclasp'd she wears. Her upward eye, and downcast mien so sweet, Tell it is Mary at the Master's feet.

The scene is changed; and she who oft had shone
A star of splendour in the transient world,
Is darken'd now at nature's dying groan,

To foul disgrace from her vain orbit hurl'd.
But see that sainted one, new risen on high,
Refulgent, fix'd in heaven's eternal sky!

TRANSLATION OF ALCUIN'S CATALOGUE OF EGBERT'S LIBRARY.

HERE, duly placed on consecrated ground,
The studied works of many an age are found,
The ancient Fathers' reverend remains ;

The Roman Laws, which freed a world from chains;
Whate'er of law pass'd from immortal Greece

To Latian lands, and gain'd a rich increase;

All that bless'd Israel drank in showers from heaven ;
Or Afric sheds, soft as the dew of even :

Jerome, the Father of a numerous throng;
And Hilary, whose sense was rich and strong;
Ambrose, who nobly guides both Church and State ;
Augustine, good and eminently great;

And holy Athanasius,—sacred name;
All that proclaims Orosius' learned fame;
Whate'er the lofty Gregory hath taught;
Or Leo Pontiff, good, with wisdom fraught ;
With all that shines illustrious in the page
Of Basil eloquent, Fulgentius sage;
And Cassiodorus, with a consul's power,
Yet eager to improve the studious hour;
And Chrysostom, whose fame immortal flies,
Whose style, whose sentiment demands the prize;
All that Adhelmus wrote; and all that flows
From Beda's fruitful mind, in verse or prose.
Lo! Victorinus and Boëtius hold
A place for sage philosophy of old.
Here sober History tells her ancient tale;
Pompey to charm, and Pliny, never fail.

The Stagyrite unfolds his searching page;
And Tully flames, the glory of his age.
Here you may listen to Sedulian strains,
And sweet Juvencus' lays delight the plains.
Alcuin, Paulinus, Prosper, sing or show,
With Clemens and Aratus, all they know.
What Fortunatus and Lactantius wrote;
What Virgil pours in many a pleasing note;
Statius and Lucan, and the polish'd sage
Whose "Art of Grammar "guides a barbarous age;
In fine, whate'er the immortal masters taught,
In all their rich variety of thought;

And as the names sound from the roll of fame,
Donatus, Focas, Priscian, Probus claim

An honour'd place ;-and Servius joins the band;
While also moves, with mien form'd to command,
Euticus, Pompey, and Comnenian, wise

In all the lore antiquity supplies.

Here, the pleased reader cannot fail to find
Other famed masters of the polish'd mind,

Whose numerous works, penn'd in a beauteous style,
Delight the student, and all care beguile;
Whose names, a lengthen'd and illustrious throng,
I wave, at present, and conclude my song.

ALONG the plain, and on his favourite hill,
The flocks wind slow; but Lycidas is fled :
The haunts he loved,-the wood, the rock, the rill,-
All seem to sigh, "Our Lycidas is dead!"

Full well he knew the lowly shepherd's art;

Brought back the 'wilder'd wanderers to his fold; Touch'd their disastrous wounds with healing smart ; The trembling lambs snatch'd from the piercing cold. The clear blue springs, more cooling than the morn, And verdant pastures green, full well he knew ; What time the lark on early breezes borne,

Or Vesper shone, thither his flocks he drew.

This was written on the death of the Rev. William Lavers, at the request

of his biographer, Mr. Elliott.

To snowy whiteness wash'd, decking the lawn,
They show'd by whom their cheerful steps were led ;
And who might say, at noon, or night, or dawn,
"The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed?"

But Lycidas no more shall walk the plains;
His joyful reed no more attention charms;
Ah! who among the sorrowing shepherd-swains
Shall guard, like him, his devious flocks from harms?

Yet say not, "He is dead!"-He lives, is gone

Where the Great Shepherd reigns who call'd him hence;

There now he roams in happier fields, where none

To skies less bright returns, joys less intense.

There, call'd to tend some higher charge, and greet
The shepherds of the true Arcadian land,
He tunes the live-long day his strains, more sweet
Than pipe could sound touch'd by our rustic hand.

Cease, then, to mourn; think of what once he was,-
Faithful, contented, meek, and good, and kind;
Him let us imitate in virtue's cause,

Till we, with him, those bless'd abodes shall find.

ON VIEWING WINDSOR CASTLE.

JUNE 21ST, 1830.*

WINDSOR, for festive sounds that oft have rung
Through thy proud halls sad messages are heard:
Sorrow a chill and silent gloom has hung

On groves which waked the joy of Twickenham's bard.

The dark, slow shadows on thy terrace tell,
All is not sunshine o'er the royal head.
The flag flaps languidly, and Time's deep knell
Echoes the dreary thought that Hope has fled.

Thy warlike breasts, and sentinels, and towers,
Speak of the siege, and feud of deadliest foes;
And yet no drum is heard, no marching powers

Disturb thy fields where Thames still peaceful flows.

* The occasion of these verses was a visit to Windsor, during the period of anxious suspense that preceded the death of His late Majesty King George IV. which event occurred five days afterwards.

The battle is within :-Two kings of might
In fatal tournament are firmly set;
Heroes stand mute, and tremble at the sight;
For who of these shall hinder, who shall let?

He whose bright sceptre rules with sovereign sway
The sixth part of the peopled earth, stoops low;
He whom the champions of the world obey,

An image lies of weakness, and of woe.

With momentary glance his thoughtful eye
Looks back on life's gay path, now view'd afar,
But, while the vision fades-as in the sky

A rainbow melts-he turns him to the war.

For now that dreadful monarch of the grave
Triumphant smiles, grasping the glorious prize;
The victim pants with fruitless wrench to save

The assault which thousands fear, but none defies.

God of the living and the dead! whose power
Can fill or desolate all earthly thrones;
Stand forth a Saviour in the trying hour,
Regard his piteous looks, O hear his groans !

May all of sin yield to thy powerful blood

The fault, the taint, the bondage, and the sting!

And Britons sink his frailties in the flood

Oblivious, pleading still, “God save the king!"

Then, if no more in glory's dazzling noon

He shine in courts, or sweep the woodland way; Thy love more bright, more sweet, more lasting, soon Shall gild his grave with Eden's opening day.

THE SEPULCHRE.

DESIGNED FOR EASTER.

THE holiday had flown in peace, the sun Had shone on Judah with his wonted smiles,The cross was struck,-the dreadful deed was done; But lived not in proud Salem's circling files Of hill and crag,-nor in the clustering piles That glanced on high,- -nor in the looks of men. Thus, where the horrid billow's boisterous wiles Have late engulf'd some brave bark from the ken Of weeping friendship, all is smooth, and hush'd again.

And shall Creation, when the Maker dies,
Not wear her deepest weeds a few short hours?
The world rolls on, and not a trace supplies
Of terrors that astound celestial powers,-
Save thy sequester'd melancholy bowers,
Gethsemane! And thou, the gibbet rock!-

-

Where still his sweat and blood, which in sad showers
Fast fell, lies thick and dank; and where the shock
Of earth has left its rent deep in the massive block.

Sleep on, ye sated sons of hate and blood,-
Sleeps not the traitor of his faithful Lord :-
Pilate and Caiaphas, murderers of the Good,
Sleep on, while conscience sings the false accord!
Yours is no envied peace ;-she is not moor'd,
Your bark of joyful being: No, afar

She slumbers on the deep, which Heaven's dread word (As Calm flies frighted at the coming war)

Shall lash aloft, till drench'd shall seem the last faint star.

Yet were not all forgetful of the groans,

The last, loud groans, of HIM who died for all.
Among the millions of mankind He owns

A few loved followers, whom fears appal,
And doubts confound; but who now frequent call,
Sorrowing, on their Divine Companion lost.

Behold!-her cup of joy now turn'd to gall,-
A pensive sister droops, and mourns the most:
Thus sighing, at the tomb she holds her watchful post :-

66

My gentle Master! I had hoped to assuage
The immedicable sorrows of my heart!
The last rites are denied!-Will none engage,
Benignant Lord! to bring me where thou art?

*

*

*

*

*

Ye glistering stars, and thou, resplendent moon,
Why shine upon this guilty land,—the mart
Of cruel crimes,-which God will visit soon

With curse, whose righteous blast even hell dare not impugn?"
Now on the sepulchre is seen to rove

Her ardent eye, and tears again to flow
From the deep fountain of her troubled love.
Ah! little reck our days such love to know;
The scene but swells the torrent of her woe;
The beam of night points to her happier days,-
Heals not, but strengthens the distressful blow,
And silvers into view, with ruthless gaze,

Mountains, lakes, temples, towers,-the memory of his ways.