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One, worthy her, is only left,
Homeward they went : how dread that night,
News from the Grave where Jesus lay!
Grief, Joy, can win nor tear nor smile,-
She comes not where disciples meet
No more of fleshly tie remains,-
The Heavens receive Him now ! She kneels
2 Cor. v. 16. + Acts i. 14. Whatever poets and painters have feigned, Mary, the mother of Jesus, is never introduced in inspired story, from the moment in which she is led from Calvary, until her meeting with the disciples in “ the upper room." This is the last notice of her, and she is heard of no more.
Mother and Son,-relations fond,
Her awful path she now had trod,
Oh Calvary! What bigot-force
SONNET ON A LAKE NEAR TOBERMORE Y.
Why pleases well this scene? Not that yon heights
Rise with the pomp of Alpine majesty ;
Not that this tranquil lake and azure sky Swim in the sheen of summer's strongest lights. Not that yon waterfalls their concert pour,
And iris arch, while they new valleys make;
Nor, that these ripples from each flowery brake, Like gladsome things, disport around mine oar !
No,—but that man has not defiled this scene ! The tempest of his passions has not marred
Thy lilied border nor thy face serene,-
Thy soft and pulsing music! Could my boat
ODE WRITTEN ON ENTERING SCOTLAND FOR
THE FIRST TIME,
“ Two voices are there : one is of the sea,
Land of my Fathers, hail !
I roam thy lineal child, Where'er the hill-mists sail,
Or leap the cataracts wild :
Thy noblest chivalry,
Expiring to be free!
But dearest to my heart,
That firm, heroic, band
For conscience made the stand. Your mouldering dust I seek,
Where the bleak thistle waves : Ye, being dead, yet speak,
Enthronized in your graves.
And oh my Father-land,
Dear as thy soil to me, As freedom's hallowed strand,
In blood, in spirit, free,Compel the hand that weaves
The garland of thy fame, Among its proudest"leaves,
To twine the Martyr's name.