III. Daughter of kings! a holier love Will thy maturer thoughts employ; Faith such as cloistered maidens prove, Exalts the heart to mightier joy; Lo! brightly glows each glorious shrine; Lo! countless splendours round thee rise!" "But will they ever learn to shine Bright as mine own sweet mother's eyes? IV. "I shall not grieve for fair array,— I shall not miss my toys of gold, Mother! I shall but pine away In secret tears, in grief untold;— Or know thine own more firmly placed, V. "Oh, mother! wipe not thence the tears, They are our last together shed! Mine, must be nursed in lonely fears, Thine, like the summer dew-drops fed. But wilt thou weep, in sooth? Ah! no, Thou wouldst not part me from thy side Were but one pleading tear to flow, And thaw thy bosom's frozen tide! VI. "Send me not forth! I'll sit so still Beside thee-watch thy looks, thy words With prompter zeal, with readier will Than all the slaves thy state affords. They may be, like thy gem-wreathed crown, Lost, laid aside, or spurned as vain; But Nature binds me as thine own, By ties 't were sin to rend in twain. VII. "Send me not forth! I may not dwell 'Mid'yon cold, lowering looks I see." "Peace, gentlest babe! nor thus rebel Against Heaven's unreversed decree. Nor grieve thee, pretty one! nor weep; A mother's arms await thee here,-A mother's love will watch thy sleep,A mother's voice thy tasks endear. VIII. "Mighty to aid-prompt to forgive— Who, ere she sought her kindred sky, In pity unto all who live, Resigned her Son, that none might die;— Who, from her bright beatitude, Long-suffering, tender, meek and mild, Gives ease to hearts by grief subdued Gives shelter to the orphaned child!" IX. "Sister! repeat those words of peace! Oh! guide me to that mother's feet; There my repining tears shall cease,— There shall I find her service sweet! There shall I breathe, with humblest zeal, Fond prayers for her who gave me birth; Content to win her heavenly weal, By rendering up mine own on earth." ASKEYTON ABBEY. BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART. How oft in youth I loved to muse beneath And through that ivied arch, shattered and grim, These peopled quays, towers, bridge, no more to him THE TRIBUTE OF ARMS. BY MRS. ALARIC WATTS. There is a legend connected with the Church of Notre-Dame, that one of the earlier French kings rode into that cathedral after a victorious battle, and left there his horse and arms, as an offering to God and the Virgin for his success. Up to the period of the first Revolution, there existed an equestrian statue of a knight armed cap-a-pee, who is supposed to have been this hero. Historians are agreed as to the fact, but differ respecting the identity of the individual. I. THERE came a knight in his armour dight, to the Church of Notre-Dame; The victor heir of proud Navarre, and the sun-bright Oriflamme; The chancel rang 'neath his courser's tread, where the priests were bowed in prayer, And the mitred Abbot raised his head, for a princely guest was there. II. He greeted not that holy band, but made the' accus tomed sign, And reined his barb with a practised hand, at the foot of St. Mary's shrine; Then lightly leaped from his saddle down, the monks stood mute the while, And his kingly brow was lighted now, with a bright triumphant smile. III. As he bowed him there on the altar-stair, and his devoir duly paid, For added glory to his crest, and fame to his battle blade; Then laid aside his helm of pride, nor shunned the gazing crowd, But kneeling near, where all might hear, his homage breathed aloud: IV. "Mother of God! to thee I bring this hacked and dinted shield, And this red reaping-hook of death, from Cassel's bloody field; These trophies true are sure thy due, to whom all honour be; The strife is done, the battle won, by might derived |