Cowper's Grave.

I will invite thee, from thy envious herse

To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread
That we may see there 's brightnesse in the dead.

HABINGTON.

Ir is a place where poets crown'd may feel the heart's decaying-
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying—
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish;
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was pour'd the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging!
O men! this man in brotherhood, your weary paths beguiling,
Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story—
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory-

And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,
He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted.

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration:

Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good forsaken;

Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath taken!

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon him;
With meekness that is gratefulness, on God, whose heaven hath won him—
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud towards His love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along, where breath and bird could find him;

COWPER'S GRave.

And wrought within his shatter'd brain such quick poetic senses,
As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influences!
The pulse of dew upon the grass his own did calmly number;
And silent shadow from the trees fell o'er him like a slumber.

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's chill removing,
Its women and its men became beside him true and loving!—
And timid hares were drawn from woods to share his house-caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes, with sylvan tendernesses.

But while in blindness he remain'd, unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth, though phrensy desolated,-
Nor man, nor nature satisfy whom only God created!

Like a sick child, that knoweth not his mother while she blesses,
And droppeth on his burning brow the coolness of her kisses;
That turns his fever'd eyes around-"My mother! where 's my mother?"-
As if such tender words and looks could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him;
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him-
Thus, woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him!

Thus! oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking-
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted;

But felt those eyes alone, and knew "my Saviour not deserted!"

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,
Upon the victim's hidden face no love was manifested?

What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er the atoning drops averted—
What tears have wash'd them from the soul-that one should be deserted?

COWPER'S GRAVE.

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather:

And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father-
Yea! once, Immanuel's orphan'd cry his universe hath shaken-

It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!"

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation,

That of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation;
That earth's worst phrensies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition:
And I. on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture, in a vision!

Forgiveness.

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

O God! my sins are manifold, against my life they cry,
And all my guilty deeds foregone, up to Thy temple fly;

Wilt thou release my trembling soul, that to despair is driven?

66

Forgive!" a blessed voice replied, "and thou shalt be forgiven!"

My foemen, Lord! are fierce and fell, they spurn me in their pride,
They render evil for my good, my patience they deride;

Arise, O King; and be the proud to righteous ruin driven!
"Forgive!" an awful answer came, "as thou wouldst be forgiven!"

Seven times, O Lord! I pardon'd them, seven times they sinn'd again:
They practise still to work me wo, they triumph in my pain;
But let them dread my vengeance now, to just resentment driven!
"Forgive!" the voice of thunder spake, "or never be forgiven !"

BISHOP HEBER,

Daniel in the Den of Lions.

Dan. vi. 18, 22, 24.

NIGHT spreads her sable shroud
O'er Babylon the proud,

As o'er a silent city of the dead;

Nor voice nor sound is heard,

Save the lone midnight bird,

And the far warder's deep and measured tread.

There streams no joyous light

From that pavilion bright,

Where princes round the Lord of Asia throng;-
Hush'd is the silver lute,

The golden harp is mute

Mute is the voice of music and of song.

Pale solitude is there,

Remorse, and gnawing care;

Grief wrings the monarch's heart, and dims his eye; His word hath seal'd the doom,

His signet guards the tomb;—

The guiltless prophet has gone forth to die.

He now laments, as one

Reft of an only son,

Self-tortured, self-convicted, self-abhorr'd;

But vain is pity now,

And vain the threatening brow;

No power can change the irrevocable word!