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Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For, see they would pin him below,

In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no!-she forgets The charms which she wielded before

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride—

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside—

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain-
Who hid, in their turn have been hid—
The treasures are squander'd again—

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,— The revel the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board :

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD

13

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above,-

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,—

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear,—
Peace, Peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow:

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to HOPE we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise:
The second to FAITH, which insures it fulfill'd,—
And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
HERBERT KNOWLES.

THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy vernal seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

When heaven is fill'd with music sweet,
Of birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,
Starts thy curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear,

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

LOGAN.

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

;

CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?

15

Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not :
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!

SHAKSPEARE.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

BOUND upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb;
By the flesh with scourges torn;
By the crown of twisted thorn ;
By the side so deeply pierced;
By the baffled, burning thirst;
By the drooping, death-dew'd brow:
Son of man! 'tis Thou !-'tis Thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noonday pale,
Shivering rocks and rending veil ;
By earth, that trembles at His doom;
By yonder saints, who burst their tomb;

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