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· Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also."
Oh what are all our Nature's ties
Long since the Widow steeped the moss
Strong in maternal love,—the Eclipse,-
Mother! once fanned by angel-wings!
Born of a woman,
-see Him turn
Upon the crisis of that hour
One, worthy her, is only left,
Homeward they went: now dread that night,
News from the Grave where Jesus lay!
Grief, Joy, can win nor tear nor smile,-
She comes not where disciples meet
No more of fleshly tie remains,-
The Heavens receive Him now! She kneels
• 2 Cor. v. 16. + Acts i. 14. Whatever poets and painters have feigned, Mary, the mother of Jesus, is never introduced in inspired story, from the moment in which she is led from Calvary, until her meeting with the disciples in " the upper room.” This is the last notice of her, and she is heard of no more.
Mother and Son, relations fond,
Her awful path she now had trod,
Oh Calvary! What bigot-force
SONNET ON A LAKE NEAR TOBERMOREY.
Why pleases well this scene ? Not that yon heights
Rise with the pomp of Alpine majesty;
Not that this tranquil lake and azure sky Swim in the sheen.of summer's strongest lights. Not that yon waterfalls their concert pour,
And iris arch, while they new valleys make;
Nor, that these ripples from each flowery brake, Like gladsome things, disport around mine oar !
No,-but that man has not defiled this scene ! The tempest of his passions has not marred
Thy lilied border nor thy face serene,-
Thy soft and pulsing music! Could my boat
ODE WRITTEN ON ENTERING SCOTLAND FOR
THE FIRST TIME,
“ Two voices are there : one is of the sea,
LAND of the Mountain, hail !
Thy soaring peaks arise
To pierce the arching skies :
Which shook the earth of old :
And makes the patriot bold.
Land of the Forest, hail !
Deep through thy solemn shades
Or rustle light thy glades :
And let thy sylvan mirth
Of freedom round the earth.
Land of the Torrent, hail !
Whose tumbling waters roar
every farthest shore: Ye floods, your thunder roll
Far to the bellowing main, And rouse the free-born soul
With nature's choral strain.
Land of the Islet, hail !
Let all that gem-like throng, Each tufted rock, prevail
To swell the freeman's song: And while this infant host
Their shriller notes employ, Re-echoed by thy coast,
Prolong the sounding joy.
Land of the Tempest, hail !
Before whose angry sweep The roots of ages quail,
And foams to heaven the deep. Oh lend your voice and van
To peal, to waft, the shout Of disenthralled man
The universe throughout.
Land of the Meteor, hail !
Thy clouds as incense wreathe Careering on the gale,
Or shrouding all beneath : Let awful curls, as erst,
Climb towering to the skies, As swells the mighty burst
Of all these harmonies.