O'er the red moat our conquering thunders flew.
And loftier still the grisly rampire grew.
While proudly glow'd above the rescued tower
The wavy cross that mark'd Britannia's power.

HEBER.

THE HOLLY TREE.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence so wise,

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize :

And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree,

Can emblem see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain austerities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they ;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.

SOUTHEY.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

Some love to range the world's wide round,
Some court the city's giddy charms,
Some list the trumpet's clanging sound,
Joy'd at the thought of war's alarms;
Ambitious arts and pleasure's smiles,
With deep distrust I cautious flee,
And glory's vain deceitful wiles,

For home, sweet home, is all to me!

Fond hopes of wealth, vain dreams of ease,
Of future riches, future rest,

And all that fancy's self could please,
Fill the void chasm of many a breast;
They seek the busy haunts of life,

Explore the desert, brave the sea,
For these they join in worldly strife,
But home, sweet home, is all to me!
Loved home! dear scene of every bliss
That clings around my grateful heart!
My Mary's smile! my infant's kiss!
What purer joys can life impart ?
Content with what my God has given,
I live what others wish to be;
Enjoying earth and hoping heaven,
My home, sweet home, is all to me!

THE MOURNFUL HARP.

My harp no more is twined with flowers,
The bough on which I leant is rotten;
Yet all the joys that once were ours,
Are far too sweet to be forgotten.

No string will sound to pleasure's touch;
No note awake that speaks of gladness:
Such is my mournful harp, and such

The heart that thou hast doom'd to sadness.

In vain for me the spring bequeaths
The calm where beauty's wing reposes;
In vain for me the summer breathes
Its blushing flowers and fields of roses.

In vain for me the joyful hearth—

The cheeks that glow, the eyes that glisten; In vain the syren voice of mirth ;

I heed not,-hear not-cannot listen.

Will pity to thy breast repair,

When grief o'er error is repenting?
Yes, thou who art as angel fair,
Wilt as an angel be relenting.

And then my harp in ecstacy

Will sound-'tis alway sad without thee;

And bliss will come again, and I

Will sing in thrilling strains about thee.

FRIENDS.

Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our final rest,
Dying or living none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time—
Beyond the reign of death-
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire
Whose sparks fly upward and expire!

There is a world above

Where parting is unknown,---
A long eternity of love

Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star, by star declines,
Till all are past away;

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

MONTGOMERY.

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

While the body of Henry II. was lying in state in the Abbey-church of Fontevraud, it was visited by Richard Cœur de Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and reproached himself bitterly for that rebellious conduct, which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.

Tocrhes were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a King lay stately on his bier,
In the church of Fontevraud;

Banners of battle o'er him hung,

And warriors slept beneath,

And light, as the noon's broad light was flung
On the settled face of Death.

On the settled face of Death,
A strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimm'd at times by censer's breath,

Yet it fell still brightest there

As if each deeply furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show-
Alas! that scepter'd mortal's race
Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul.

And solemn were the strains they pour'd
In the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent King in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang,
With a sounding thrill of dread.
And the holy chaunt was hush'd awhile,

As by the torches flame

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,
A dark glance high and clear,

But his proud heart through his breast-plate shook,
When he stood beside the bier.

He stood there still, with a drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it rais'd;

For his Father lay before him low,

It was Cœur de Lion gazed.

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in late repentant love,
Than steel may keep suppress'd.

And his tears brake forth at last, like rain.-
Men held their breath in awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck'd not that they saw

He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow ev'n as lead,
Pale on the fast shut eye.