Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The Grandane sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Well-earned, the bread of service :-her's was
A mounting spirit, one that entertained Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image: I remember, too,
With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skilled in genealogies,
And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin; Of friends offended, family disgraced- Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises; and I wrong Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
She served her heavenly master. I have seen That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross- For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the Nazarene.
THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man,
Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his puruit-thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again.
Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.
THE truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By chrystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
FROM broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds,
Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of
"Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies,
And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life-health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
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