Where bright memorials of nature wave
Sweet perfume o'er the sleeping brave,

In his moss-clad mountain tomb!

I knelt by that wild and lonely spot,
Where moulders the heart of one

That bled and died, but that blenched not
At the tyrant's chain, or the soldier's shot,
Till life's last sands had run.

And the vision of other days came back,
When the dark and bloody band,
With the might of a living cataract,
Essay'd to sweep, in their fiery tract,
The godly from the land.

When Zion was far on the mountain height,
When the wild was the House of Prayer;
Where the eye of eternal hope grew bright,
O'er the saint, array'd in the warrior's might,
For his God and his country there!

When the barbarous hordes, as they onward rode
By the wild and rocky glen,

Have heard, when away from man's abode,
A voice that awed like the voice of God,-

'Twas the hymn of fearless men!

For the sunless cave was the Martyr's home,

And the damp cold earth his bed;

And the thousand lights of the starry dome
Were the suns of his path, while doomed to roam
O'er the wilds where his brothers bled!-

When the clang of the conflict rung on the heath, And the watchword of freedom rose,

Like the tones of heaven, on the saint's last breath, Far, far o'er the battle-notes of death,

As he soar'd to his last repose!—

The vision pass'd; but the home is mine,
Where the wild bird makes her nest,

On the rocky altars and mossy shrine,
Where the weeds and flowers of the desert twine
Round the Martyr's bed of rest.

The lover of freedom can never forget

The glorious peasant-band

His sires that on Scotia's moorlands met ;-
Each name, like a seal on the heart, is set,
The pride of his father-land!

ANGELIC MINISTRY.

Spenser.

AND is there care in heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?

There is: else much more wretched were the case
Of men, than beasts. But O! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God! that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us, that succour want?
How oft do they, with golden pinions, cleave,
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant?
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,
And all for love, and nothing for reward:

O why should heavenly God to men have such

regard.

HYMN TO SUNSET.

CALM, pensive, prayer-inspiring hour,
Day's fairest, first of daughters, hail!
Thy voice is song from hawthorn bower,

Thy breath is balm from primrose dale,

And voice and breath fall sweet when blended in the gale.

Thy sigh the breeze, whose whispers stray O'er the lone stream, or, lingering, die ; Thy smile, the pure, bright, parting ray From earth that streams into the sky, As if its glance would paint Heaven's glories on the eye.

O be it mine to walk with thee!

On dewy footstep through the vale, When the long shadow marks the lea

Where willows droop their foliage pale,

And o'er the stream white clouds on noiseless

pinions sail.

Soul-touching hour! about me fold

Thy shadowy mantle; let thy blue, Pale vestment, with its weft of gold,

From dewy fringe dim-shining through, Be o'er me cast, and bathe my spirit in its hue.

And take me by the hand, where'er
By valley, stream, or upland dell,
Thou goest, with brow serenely fair,

To bid the bird's green haunts farewell,
Or kiss the young wild flowers that solitary dwell.

And lead me to the mountain crest,

Gray sentinel of land and sea, Where thy last beam delights to rest,

Where thy last look is sure to be,

And I will sit and weave a poet's wreath for thee.

Sweet hour! thy voice, thy breath of balm,

Thy sigh of breeze, thy smile of light,

Thy waving robe, have each a charm

That wings my spirit on its flight

To him who bade thee be-so beautiful and bright.