Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!

Imperishable type of evanescence !
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment-morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?

O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue, that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

TO A DYING INFANT.

D. M. MOIR.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes, with the quiet dead,

Baby! thy rest shall be

Oh! many a weary wight,

Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee!

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! the little bosom

Labours with shortening breath;
Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh

Speaks his departure nigh

Those are the damps of death.

Now, like a dewdrop shrined
Within a crystal stone,

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove !
Safe with the source of love,
The everlasting One!

And when the hour arrives,

From flesh that sets me free,

Thy spirit may await

The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me.

THE INCARNATION.

For thou wast born of woman, thou didst come,
O Holiest to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;

And not by thunders strewed

Was thy tempestuous road,

Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way;

But thee, a soft and naked child,.

Thy mother, undefiled,

In the rude manger laid to rest

From off her virgin breast.

The heavens were not commanded to prepare

A gorgeous canopy of golden air;

MILMAN.

Nor stooped their lamps the enthroned fires on high;
A single silent star

Came wandering from afar,

Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky;
The Eastern Sages leading on,

As at a kingly throne,

To lay their gold and odours sweet

Before thy infant feet.

The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear
Bright harmony from every starry sphere ;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all thy cherub choirs,

And seraphs' burning lyres,

Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along;

One angel troop the strain began,

Of all the race of man,

By simple shepherds heard alone,

That soft Hosanna's tone.

And when thou didst depart, no car of flame

To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came;
Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes;
Nor didst thou mount on high

From fatal Calvary

With all thine own redeemed outbursting from their tombs ;

For thou didst bear away from earth

But one of human birth,

The dying felon by thy side, to be

In Paradise with thee.

Nor o'er thy cross did clouds of vengeance break;

A little while the conscious earth did shake

At that foul deed by her fierce children done;
A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay,

Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun :
While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb,

Consenting to thy doom,

Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone

Upon the sealed stone.

And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand
With devastation in thy red right hand,
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew;
But thou didst haste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,

And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few:

Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise

Into thy native skies,

Thy human form dissolved on high
Into its own radiancy.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

LONGFELLOW.

A MIST came driving down the British Channel;
The day was just begun,

And through the window panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red Autumn Sun.

It glanced on rippling flag, and glowing pennon:
And the white sails of ships ;-

And from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover
Were all alert that day,

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

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions

Their cannon through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared, at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel :

Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well.

And down the coast all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts

As if to summon from his sleep, the Warden,
And lord of the Cinque Ports.