Alone she sat :-from hill and wood Red sank the mournful sun; Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood, With her long hair she vainly press'd The wounds to staunch their tide Unknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died! TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. Umile in tanta gloria.-PETRARCH. If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? Have we not felt its breath in every word, Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. How shall we mourn thee?-With a lofty trust, And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd; Praise for yet one more name with power endow'd, To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; Yet one more image, on the heart bestow'd, To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead, Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. ST. ASAPH, Sept. 1826. THE ADOPTED CHILD. "WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall, Where many an image of marble gleams, "Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, know Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go." "Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell, Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Harps which the wandering breezes tune; "Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, To the babe half slumbering on her knee; "Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; Nor hear her song at the cabin door. Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." |