Writes it with a holy duty,

Seals it not, but waits awhile;
If the evil doer cry not-

"God forgive me!" ere he sleeps,
Then the sad, stern spirit seals it,
And the gentler spirit weeps.

To the sinner, if Repentance

Cometh soon, with healing wings,
Then the dark account is cancelled,
And each joyful angel sings;
Whilst the erring one perceiveth-
Now his troublous hour is o'er-
Music, fragrance wafted to him
From a yet untrodden shore!

Mild and mighty is Forgiveness,
Meekly worn, if meekly won;
Let our hearts go forth to seek it
Ere the setting of the sun!
'Angels wait and long to hear us

Ask it ere the time be flown;

Let us give it and receive it,

Ere the midnight cometh down!

SONNET.

ULYSSES, sailing by the Sirens' isle,

Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them fast

Bind him with many a fetter to the mast,

Lest those sweet voices should their souls beguile,

And to their ruin flatter them, the while

Their homeward bark was sailing swiftly past;

And thus the peril they behind them cast,

Though chased by those weird voices many a mile.
But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used:

No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear;
But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear
The blisses of the gods, their holy joys,

And with diviner melody confused

And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise.

TRENCH.

THE EXECUTION.

THE clock strikes Four!

Round the debtor's door

Are gathered a couple of thousands or more;
As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding-doors open; and straight
The mob divides; and between their ranks

A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five!

The sheriffs arrive,

BARHAM.

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,-
All,-save the wretch condemned to die!
Alack that ever so fair a sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scenes of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows tree!

And hark!-a sound comes big with fate,

The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!—
List to that low funeral bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!

And see!-from forth that opening door

They come-he steps the threshold o'er

Who never shall tread upon threshold more.-
God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale man's mute agony,

The glare of that wild despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,—not even in prayer;

That heaving chest!-Enough, 'tis done!—

The bolt has fallen!-The spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known to but One!-
Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight! Ah me!

A deed to shudder at,-not to see.

THE BRITISH BOW.

BISHOP HEBER.

YE spirits of our fathers,

The hardy, bold, and free,

Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field
A fourfold enemy!

From us who love your sylvan game,

To you the song shall flow,

To the fame of your name

Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England,
(Our ancient records tell,)
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who braved a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,

And his only friend the bow!

'Twas merry then in England
In autumn's dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.

And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth

In garb of green did go

The shade to invade

With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers!

Extend to us your care,

Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair!

'Tis merry yet in Old England,

Full well her archers know,

And shame on their name

Who despise the British bow.

MORNING.

HUES of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible

Around his path are taught to swell;

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing;-

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven ;-

Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight;
Who day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of Heaven and you partake?

Oh! timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,

Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love

Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,

Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.

If on our daily course our mind

Be set to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,

God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,

As more of Heaven in each we see:

KEBLE.