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The features, once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

'Twas then unwearied, day and night,
I watched beside her bed,

And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.

She lived she loved me for

My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

my

care!

THE SQUIRE'S PEW.

BY JANE TAYLOR.

A SLANTING ray of living light
Shoots through the yellow pane;
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again :

The window's gothic frame-work falls,
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,

How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and passed away!

How many a setting sun hath made
That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green,
The cunning hand must be,
That carved this fretted-door, I ween,
Acorn, and fleur-de-lis ;

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore (as now we call),
When the first James was king,
The courtly knight from yonder hall
His train did hither bring;

All seated round in order due,

With 'broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe,
All reverently they knelt;
Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,

Each holding in a lily hand;

Responsive to the priest's command.

M

Now streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam long and lone
Illumes the characters awhile

Of their inscription-stone;

And there, in marble hard and cold, The knight with all his train behold:

Outstretched together are expressed
He and my lady fair;

With hands uplifted on the breast
In attitude of prayer;

Long-visaged, clad in armour, he,-
With ruffled arm and boddice, she.

Set forth in order as they died,
Their numerous offspring bend,
Devoutly kneeling side by side,
As if they did intend

For past omissions to atone,

By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim;

But generations new,

In regular descent from him,

Have filled that stately pew; And in the same succession go To occupy the vault below.

And now the polished, modern squire,
And his gay train appear;

Who duly to the hall retire,

A season every year;

And fill the seats with belle and beau,

As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor
Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest
Another, and another guest.

The feathered hearse and sable train,

In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,

And stand before the gate;
Brought many a distant country through
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,
All in their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gaily o'er their heads:
While other faces fresh and new
Shall fill the squire's respected pew.

ON LEAVING SCHOOL.

BY W. WORDSWORTH.

DEAR native regions, I foretel,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That wheresoe'er my steps shall tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end;
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast a backward view,
The longing look alone on you:
Thus when the sun prepared for rest
Hath gained the precincts of the west,
Tho' his departing radiance fail
To illuminate the hollow vale,

A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.

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