DESCRIPTION OF EVENING. How like a tender mother, With loving thoughts beguiled, Fond Nature seems to lull to rest Each faint and weary child! Drawing the curtain tenderly, Affectionate and mild. Hark to the gentle lullaby That through the trees is creeping! One little fluttering bird, Like a child in a dream of pain, Has chirped and started up, Then nestled down again. Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest, Are as like as any twain. C. YOUNG. CŒEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. TORCHES were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier In the church of Frontevraud. Banners of battle o'er him hung, And warriors slept beneath; And light, as noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there; As if each deeply furrowed trace The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, And solemn were the strains they poured Through 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 pavements rang With a sounding thrill of dread; As by the torch's flame A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle He came with haughty look, An eagle-glance and clear! But his proud heart through his breastplate shook When he stood beside the bier. He stood there still, with a drooping brow And clasped hands o'er it raised, For his father laid before him low- And silently he strove With the workings of his breast; And his tears broke forth at last like rain ;- For his face was seen by his warrior train, He looked upon the dead And sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead, He stooped, and pressed the frozen cheek, Till bursting words-yet all too weakGave his soul's passion way. "O father! is it vain, This late remorse and deep? Speak to me! mighty grief Ere now the dust hath stirred ! Hushed, hushed!-how is it that I call, Thy silver hairs I see, So still, so sadly bright! I bore thee down, high heart! at last, Thou wert the noblest king On royal throne e'er seen; And thou didst wear in knightly ring And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, In war the bravest heart : Oh! ever the renowned and loved Thou that my boyhood's guide How will that sad, still face of thine HEMANS. A HEBREW MELODY. ON Carmel's brow the wreathy vine A sickly paleness spread; And energy sublime, Into that shadowy region sped, He saw the valleys far and wide,⚫ He looked o'er many a mountain-side, Save that a boding voice sung on, By wave and waterfall, As still in harsh and heavy tone On Kison's strand and Ephratah No wayfarer between he saw, No maiden at her task did ply, Where dwellers once had been ! Oh! beauteous were the palaces And still they glimmered to the breeze, Where harp and cymbal rung; And there, as if in mockery, But, oh! that prophet's visioned eye, His gray hair streamed upon the wind, He saw the feast at Bozrah spread, Eastward away the eagle sped, 66 And all the birds of prey: Who's this," he cried, "comes by the way Of Edom, all divine Travelling in splendour, whose array Is red, but not with wine?" Bless'd be the herald of our King, That comes to set us free! And blossoms spring on field and tree, |