Page images
PDF

She heard and wept--
She wept, to wear a crown!

They decked her courtly halls;

They reined her hundred steeds; They shouted at her palace gate,

A noble Queen succeeds !". Her name has stirred the mountain's sleep,

Her praise has filled the town;
And mourners God had stricken deep,
Looked hearkening up, and did not weep.

Alone she wept,
Who wept to wear a crown!

She saw no purples shine,

For tears had dimmed her eyes;
She only knew her childhood's flowers

Were happier pageantries !
And while her heralds played their part

Those million shouts to drown“God save the Queen !” from hill to mart, She heard through all her beating heart,

And turned and wept-
She wept to wear a crown!

God save thee, weeping Queen!

Thou shalt be well beloved ! The tyrant's sceptre cannot move

As those pure tears have moved !
The nature in thine eyes we see

That tyrants cannot own--
The love that guardeth liberties !
Strange blessing on the nation lies

Whose Sovereign wept-
Yea, wept to wear its crown!

God bless thee, weeping Queen,

With blessing more divine !
And fill with happier love than earth's,

That tender heart of thine !

That when the thrones of earth shall be

As low as graves brought down,
A piercèd hand may give to thee
The crown which angels shout to see!

Thou wilt not weep
To wear that heavenly crown!

ELIZABETH BROTTNING,

RULE, BRITANNIA.

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang the strain :

“Rule, Britanuia, rule the waves-
Britons never will be slaves !”

The nations not so bless'd as thee,

Must in their turns to tyrants fall; While thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame :

All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame;

But work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair ;

Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair :

“Rule, Britannia, rule the waves -
Britons never will be slaves !”

THOMSON,

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

We walked along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,

“ The will of God be done."

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass

And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

“Our work,” said I," was well begun ;

Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought ?".

A second time did Matthew stop;

And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply :

“Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn

Such colours, and no other,

Were in the sky that April morn,

Of this the very brother.

With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,
And coming to the church, stopped short

Beside my daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale ;
And then she sang ;-she would have been

A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay;

And yet I loved her more-
For so it seemed-than till that day

I e'er had loved before.

And turning from her grave, I met,

Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet

With points of morning dew.
A basket on her head she bare;

Her brow was smooth and white :
To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight.
No fountain from its rocky cave

E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave

That dances on the sea.

There came from me a sigh of pain

Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again-

And did not wish her mine !"

Matthew is in his grave, yet now

Methinks I see him stand
As at that moment, with a bough

Of wilding in his hand.

WORDSWORTH,

THE FOUNTAIN.

We talked with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young,

And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match

This water's pleasant tune,
With some old Border song or catch,

That suits a summer's noon.

Or of the church-clock and the chimes

Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes

Which you last April made.”

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,

The gray-haired man of glee :

“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears;

How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years,

And flow as now it flows.

And here, on this delightful day,

I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay

Beside this fountain's brink.

My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,

« PreviousContinue »