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We that had loved him so, followed him, hon- AT NIGHT IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

ored him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear

accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us-they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen;

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

II.

We shall march prospering-not through his presence;

Songs may inspirit us-not from his lyre; Deeds will be done-while he boasts his

quiescence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.

Blot out his name, then-record one lost soul

more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,

One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins; let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad, confident morning again!

THE castle clock had tolled midnight.

With mattock and with spadeAnd silent, by the torches' lightHis corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name; that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

"Peace to the dead!" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave;

No prayers were read, no knell was rung, As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the winter's wind,

In many a sullen gust,

As o'er the open grave inclined, We murmured, "Dust to dust!"

A moonbeam from the arch's height Streamed, as we placed the stone The long aisles started into light,

And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then
That shook along the walls,
Whilst the sad shades of mailed men

Were gazing on the stalls.

'Tis gone!-Again on tombs defaced
Sits darkness more profound;
And only by the torch we traced
The shadows on the ground.

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Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, For his eyes were sealed and his mind was

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

dark,

And he sat in his age's lateness— Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness;

When the clock struck the hour for retir- His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread

ing;

And we knew by the distant random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Unvexed by life's commotion,

Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed On the calm of a frozen ocean.

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He passed into the chamber of the sleeperThe dark and silent room;

t glanced on flowing flag and rippling pen- And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,

non,

And the white sails of ships;

The silence and the gloom.

■nd, from the frowning rampart, the black He did not pause to parley, or dissemble,

cannon

Hailed it with feverish lips.

andwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover,

Were all alert that day,

o see the French war-steamers speeding over When the fog cleared away.

allen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, olding their breath, had watched in grim defiance

The sea-coast opposite.

But smote the Warden hoar

Ah! what a blow!-that made all England tremble

And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead-
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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WHEN I beneath the cold, red earth am sleep-The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow ing, Shall never need.

Life's fever o'er,

Will there for me be any bright eye weeping Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,

That I'm no more?

Thou gentle heart!

Will there be any heart still memory keeping And, though thy bosom should with grief be

Of heretofore?

swelling, Let no tear start;

When the great winds, through leafless for- It were in vain-for Time hath long been

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And the small flowers, their buds and blos- His teachers were the torn heart's wail,

soms twining,

Burst through that clay—

Will there be one still on that spot repining

Lost hopes all day?

The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave! Sin met thy brother every where! And is thy brother blamed?

When the Night shadows, with the ample From passion, danger, doubt, and care,

sweeping

Of her dark pall,

He no exemption claimed. The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

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