Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep; Her praise has filled the town :

And mourners God had stricken deep, Looked hearkening up, and did not weep ! Alone she wept,

Who wept to wear a crown.

She saw no purple shine,

For tears had dimm'd her eyes;
She only knew her childhood's flowers
Were happier pageantries!

And while the heralds played their part
For million shouts to drown-

"God save the Queen," from hill to mart

She heard through all, her beating heart, And turned and wept !

She wept to wear a crown.

God save thee, weeping Queen!
Thou shalt be well beloved.
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move,
As those pure tears have moved!
The nature in thine eye we see,
Which tyrants cannot own―

The love that guardeth liberties ;
Strange blessing on the nation lies,
Whose Sovereign wept,
Yea, wept, to wear a crown.

God bless thee, weeping Queen,
With blessing more divine;

And fill with better love than earth's
That tender heart of thine;

And when the thrones of earth shall be
As low as graves brought down,

A piercéd hand may give to thee
The crown which angels wept to see.
Thou wilt not weep,

To wear that heavenly crown.

E. B. BROWNING.

n the Death of Vord Herbert, of Bea.

ET Glory with her golden chaplet crown
Those who in battle for their country die:
England, dear HERBERT, with a like renown
Enrols thy name amongst her chivalry,
Though thou on peaceful bed didst close

thine eye:

Thee as a model, bids her children take, And learn to hazard life, as thou didst, for her sake.

See how in youth, by careful mother led,

Upwards his thoughts, with steady gaze he turned, Enticing scenes foreswore: hard work instead He courted, and the charms of pleasure spurned: And so an early grave by labour earned :

Whilst at stern duty's call, the path he trod Which guides by painful steps the soul from earth to God.

Mourn, Soldier, thou hast lost a faithful friend,
Thy health, thy comfort, were his constant care,
He taught thee how to save, and what to spend,
On thy sick bed he breathed a purer air:
Lo angels at his word to camps repair,
Smooth the rough pillow where the wounded lie,
And turn to brighter scenes the dying veteran's eye

Ye too, before whose presence sin should flee,
Tell how his lavish hand was wont to raise
Your modest school, your costly sanctuary,

For man's instruction and his Maker's praise : Point to the spot, where gild the sun's warm rays, A temple worthy of a poet's tongue,

In strains, such as of old another HERBERT sung.

How shall we miss the bright engaging smile,
That banished strife; to all a welcome brought;
The ready speech, a senate might beguile;

The playful wit; the rich inventive thought;
The spirit that false counsels set at nought;
Each action charming by its native grace,

And, Heaven's best gift, his mind, reflected in his face.

What though no more that silvery voice we hear,
Like distant music, still its echoes swell,

E'en from the grave it bids us check the tear,

Nor grieve for one who fought his fight so well : That voice, dear HERBERT, should a lesson tell, Count not the worth of life by length of days, His thread is fully spun, whom all unite to praise. THE RIGHT HON. T. SOTHERON ESTCOUrt.

Sunday.

H day most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th' endorsement of supreme delight,

Writ by a Friend, and with His blood;
The couch of time; cares balm and bay;
The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at Heaven with thy brow:

The working days are the back part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone

To endless death; but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone The which He doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which Heaven's palace archéd lies : The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room with vanities. They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden: that is bare Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of Man's life,

Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than Hope.

This day my Saviour rose,

And did enclose this light for His : That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground,