How less what we may be; the eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave, but like some passing waves. KINDRED CONNECTION. KINDRED Connection !-chain around our hearts To bear the sterling stamp they sever'd bore, Then-here though mixed with earth it could but break, Death will but fine th' imperishable ore, no more. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. Spencer. How oft do they their silver bowers leave, WOMAN. THE very first Of human life must spring from woman's breast, Your first small words are taught you from her lips, Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them. THE END OF LIFE. Mrs. Fry. WHAT though the moments fly, Sweet shall thy portion be Though sorrow count the hours, Let not thy spirit faint, Smile when the moments fly, HOPE. Byron. WHITE as a white sail on a dusky sea, Her anchor parts! but still her snow-white sail COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. Bemans. TORCHES were blazing clear, And light, as noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Had surely closed in woe! The marble floor was swept As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, And solemn were the strains they pour'd With the cross above, and the crown and sword, There was heard a heavy clang, As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavements rang As by the torch's flame, A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle He came with haughty look, But his proud heart, through his breastplate shook When he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow And silently he strove With the workings of his breast; And his tears break forth at last like rain, For his face was seen by his warrior train, He look'd upon the dead And sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead, |