Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart, The sands of life are nearly run, Let such in peace depart. Speak gently, kindly, to the poor- Speak gently to the erring ones— They must have toil'd in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so, Oh, win them back again. Speak gently!-He who gave his life Speak gently!-'tis a little thing Dropp'd in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy that it may bring, Eternity shall tell. THE ENGLISH HEARTH. GEORGE TWEDDELL. FROM THE YORKSHIRE MISCELLANY," 1845. "O pleasant hour! O moment ever sweet! When once again we reach the calm retreat, Where looks of iove and tones of joy abide, That heaven on earth--our dear, our own fireside!" Heavisides' Pleasures of Home. WHEN Autumn's fruits are gather'd in, And trees and fields are bare; When merry birds no more are heard To warble in the air; When sweetest flowers have droop'd and died, And snow is on the ground; How cheerful is an English hearth, With friends all seated round. Then is the time for festive mirth, And when the wild storm howls without With deep and hollow sound, I love the cheerful English hearth With friends all seated round. And when those touching strains are sung, Writ by the bards of old, How swift the evening seems to fly Unfelt the piercing cold: What though the snow-flakes thickly fall, And icicles abound! I have a cheerful English hearth For friends to sit around. And when the clouds of worldly care With friends all seated round. Though slander's foul, envenom'd shafts Should pierce my spirit through, There is one smile, one sunlit eye, To beam upon me now; And though my fate should be to roam I'll think upon my English hearth, Then fill each glass with nut-brown ale, Come, let us drink one parting toast, THE LADY ALICE. FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS," AND, OF COURSE, ANONYMOUS, I. WHAT doth the Lady Alice so late on the turret-stair, Without a lamp to light her but the diamond in her hair; When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom, And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room? She trembles at her footsteps, although their fall is light; For through the turret-loopholes she sees the murky night, Black, broken vapours streaming across the stormy skies,-Along the empty corridors the moaning tempest cries. She steals along a gallery, she pauses by a door; And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken floor; And thrice she seems returning, but thrice she turns again; Now heavy lie the clouds of sleep on that old father's brain! Oh, well it were that never thou should'st waken from thy sleep! For wherefore should they waken who waken but to weep? No more, no more beside thy bed may Peace her vigil keep; Thy sorrow, like a lion, waits upon its prey. to leap. II. An afternoon in April. No sun appears on high; A moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky; And through the castle gateway, with slow and solemn tread, Along the leafless avenue they bear the honour'd dead. They stop. The long line closes up, like some gigantic worm; A shape is standing in the path; a wan and ghost-like form; Which gazes fixedly, nor moves; nor utters any sound; Then, like a statue built of snow, falls lifeless to the ground. And though her clothes are ragged, and though her feet are bare; And though all wild and tangled, falls her heavy silkbrown hair; |