156 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow ing green; She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been. She 'll find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never gar den more; But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn; All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.— Wordsworth. SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; THE LOST PLEIAD. I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see, with eye serene, 157 THE LOST PLEIAD. - Mrs. Hemans. AND is there glory from the heavens departed?- Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? No desert seems to part those urns of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning, To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning, - Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus, and yon majestic heaven CORONACH.*-Sir W. Scott. He is gone on the mountain, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reäppearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper *Funeral song. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. The autumn winds, rushing, Waft the leaves that are serest, Fleet foot on the corei,* Sage counsel in cumber, How sound is thy slumber! THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. - Mrs. Southey. TREAD Softly,bow the head, In reverent silence bow, Stranger! however great, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter! no crowds attend; Enter! no guards defend This palace-gate. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. 159 160 AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD. That pavement damp and cold No mingling voices sound,- O change! — O wondrous change! - This moment there, so low, O change, stupendous change! Wakes with his God. AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD. - Watts, SWEET flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing Lovely minstrels of the field, |