And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
THE DEATH BED.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
Thomas Hood was born in London in 1799, and early in life turned his attention to literary pursuits. At the age of 22 he became sub-editor of the London Magazine, which gave him acquaintance with all the literary men of the age, and an intimacy with Charles Lamb, which continued until his death. He was a voluminous writer, both in poetry and prose, contributing to various magazines. In 1844 Hood’s Magazine was started, for which he furnished most of the material until near his death. His best work was done during his last sickness, when, on a bed of suffering, he contributed to Punch those touching verses which have rendered his name immortal: “The Song of the Shirt” and “The Bridge of Sighs.” He died May 3, 1845.
We watched her sleeping through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept surging to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her being out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied,
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed, she had
Another morn than ours.
VIRTUE IMMORTAL.
BY GEORGE HERBERT.
George Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales in 1593. He graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1619 he was made a public orator. Charles I., with whom he was in great favor, gave him the rectory of Bemerton, which has the reputation of being the smallest church in England. It was here that Herbert wrote his religious poems, “The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations.” He died at Bemerton in 1633.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright;
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.