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SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night
for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the
door, Don't let Effie come to see me til my grave be grow
ing green ; She 'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.
She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor ; Let her take 'em ; they are hers; I shall never gar
den more; But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush
that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to
dawn; All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. – Wordsworth.
She was a phantom of delight
I saw her upon nearer view,
And now I see, with eye serene,
THE LOST PLEIAD. – Mrs. IIemans.
And is there glory from the heavens departed? –
Still hold their place on high,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gein, the regal night?
Though thou art exiled thence;
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning,
And from the silvery sea
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray • Swept by the wind away ? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay ?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
When, from its height afar,
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!
CORONACH.* - Sir W. Scott.
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
* Funeral song.
The autumn winds, rushing,
Waft the leaves that are serest,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corei,*
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and forever!
THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. – Mrs. Southey.
TREAD softly, — bow the head,
In reverent silence bow, —
Is passing now.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
* The hollow side of the bill, where game usually lies, 160
AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.
That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
A dying head.
No mingling voices sound,
An infant wail alone; —
The parting groan.
O change! - 0 wondrous change!
Burst are the prison-bars; —
Beyond the stars !
O change, stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
Wakes with his God.
AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD. - Watts,
Sweet flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing
With an artless harmony;