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There are pale garlands hung above,

Of dying scent and hue ;

She was a mother in her love

How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior crown

Of olden glory spoild, The standard of their sires borne down,

The shield's bright blazon soiled : She met the tempest meekly brave, Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave.

She slumber'd; but it came--it came,

Her land's redeeming hour,

With the glad shout, and signal-flame,

Sent on from tower to tower ! Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved 'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung

To rouse bold hearts from sleep, Her memory, as a banner flung

Forth by the Baltic deep ; Her grief, a bitter vial pour’d To sanctify th' avenger's sword.

And the crown'd eagle spread again

His pinion to the sun ;
And the strong land shook off its chain

So was the triumph won!
But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's !-She was gone !*

* Originally published in the Monthly Magazine.


On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription : :-“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616."-See Notes to the “ Pleasures of Memory."


Hast thou, thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude,
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd,
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour?


Mother and child! whose blending tears

Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,

Was given one last embrace ;
Oh! ye have shrin'd a spell of power,
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought,

A still, small under-tone, That calls back days of childhood, fraught

With many a treasure gone ; And smites, perchance, the hidden source, Tho' long untroubled-of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone

Which marks your parting spot,

Who but a mother's love hath known,

The one love changing not? Alas! and haply learn'd its worth

First with the sound of "Earth to earth ?"

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,

O’er whose bright, honour'd head, Blessings and tears of holiest flow,

Ev'n here were fondly shed, Thou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

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