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By the lone shore delaying
While the chill breeze is straying
O'er the bright wavelets, playing
Across the golden sands-
We watch the sun declining,
Unmoved and unrepining,

Though he withdraw his shining
To rise on other lands.

Beyond a vaster ocean,
Our faith and our devotion
See with no faint emotion,
That uncreated light,
Whose glory never ending,
Its chastened ray is lending
To sainted myriads blending

Their harpings day and night.

Thus, while through clouds of sorrow,
Breaks the so-bright to-morrow,

Small cause have we to borrow

The joys that fleet and fail;
Just as we grasp them! flying,
So transient all, and dying-
Our's be the calm relying

On hopes within the veil.


"There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth." Luke xv. 10.

Hark! by th' angelic throng of heav'n,

A new melodious song is sung:

What mean those bursts of holy joy,

That flow from each immortal tongue ?

'Tis Gabriel bearing home the news
Of one poor sinner brought to God;

Of one that has begun to tread
The way his great Redeemer trod.


Hark! now the song is louder still,

While through the heavens these words resound,

"He once was dead, but now he lives

"He once was lost, but now is found."

Then shall we still go on to sin,

And choose this earth instead of heaven?
No, let us give our hearts to God,

And have our sins, through Christ forgiven.

Then, when a few more suns have set,
When death at last shall close our eyes,

The joy of angels shall increase,

As up to yonder heaven we rise.

Isle of Wight.


A BRITISH TRIUMPH IN THE OLDEN TYME. [When the VICTORS AT AZINCOUR returned to England, they were met at the old Watering of St. Thomas, in the Kent-road, on the 23rd November, 1415, with much pomp and circumstance. "The Maior of London," says Hollingshed "and the aldermen, apparelled in orient grained scarlet; and four hundred commoners clad in beautiful murtie, well mounted and trimlie horssed, with rich collars and great chaines, met the king at Blackheath rejoising at his return and the clergy of London, with rich crosses, sumptuous copes and massie censers received him at St Thomas a Waterings with solemn procession."

Old John Lydgate the monk of Bury, a contemporary writer, has described this pageant with considerable enthusiasm, and some poetic feeling. A free paraphrase of his verses, as far as they are connected with this place, follows. The opening of the fifth stanza relates to St. Thomas a Watering, though it is not mentioned by name.]

THE king from Eltham rode, and with him came
His pris'ners, noble lords, and men of name;
And as he reached Blackheath, with anxious eyes
Beneath his feet, beheld the city rise.

"Hail royal London!" he exclaimed with joy,
"Christ keep thee still from all that dare annoy!"
And, as he blessed it, made the wish a prayer,
Commending it to his dear Saviour's care.
Wete ye right well, that thus it ought to be
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!

The mayor and aldermen, in scarlet dight,

With rev'rence bowed before th' entrancing sight.
"Hail!" said the mayor, "thou conqueror, all hail!

"The grace of God has made thine arms prevail.

"Hail duke! hail prince! hail comely king! once more
"To the proud precincts of the British shore!
"Ruler of realms, and worthiest lord of all,

"Thy God except, before thy face we fall,
"And to the fairest flower of knighthood raise
"The shout of welcome, and the voice of praise !"
Wete ye right well, that thus it ought to be,
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!

"Here all your city has come forth to meet
"Their victor-king, and worship at his feet,
"To magnify his name, and welcome give
"To him for whom we die, for whom we live!"
"Graunt mercy, sires," the gracious king replied,
As forth tow'rd London he began to ride;
And thus, upon St. Clement's day, with song
And shout, and glad array, they moved along.
Wete ye right well, that thus it ought to be,
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!

The lordly flower of France, in wild amaze
Beheld this pageantry with solemn gaze;

"It fares," they said, (how well we know !)" with these
"Our English foes, as with a swarm of bees;
"Just like a hive, the land its myriads yields-
"Their stings, how fatal on our battle fields!
"So keen, so quick, that, girded for the fight
"Our harness proves no barrier to their might."
Wete ye right well, that thus it ought to be,
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!

Onward they moved; but ere the bridge they gain,
To meet the pomp, came forth a priestly train;

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King of the English, hail!" with conscious pride,
"Flower of the earth, and knight of God!" they cried.
Now as they reach the bridge, on either hand
High o'er the gate, behold a giant stand,
In stern defiance frowning on the foe
To bid the French becoming deference show.
Wete ye right well, that thus it ought to be,
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!

The drawbridge, now, that moving host comes nigh,
Where two fair tow'rs rear their proud forms on high,

An antelope and lion placed beside,

And over them, Saint George, the nation's pride,
Circled by saints, who cease not to proclaim
"Blessed is he, who cometh in God's name;

"The grace of God, with God's own knight doth spring,
"And triumphs with the conquests of our king!"

Wete ye right well that thus it ought to be,
Glory to Thee, most holy Trinity!


Now growing in the west of England, which is said to have been brought, when young, from Lebanon,

A GLORY doth enshrine thee, cedar tree!
That thou to Lebanon dost owe thy birth;
That thy young roots first shot in holy earth
Therefore, thou art a charm, a mystery.
It is for this, so oft we gaze on thee,


Though few fair branches do from thee outspring;
No shelter now" for fowl of every wing,"


As thou in thine own mountain site would be!
No shadowing shroud in this, the stranger clime;
Thou standst not towering in thy height sublime.
Yet even in thy native soil, they say
Thou livest now; but on thine old renown-
"Lebanon is ashamed and hewed down,"+
She is become a trembling, a decay.

"A child may number thee," so few thou art,
For God hath said thy glory shall depart.

E. L. A.


THIS world is not my home; delightful thought!
I'm but a stranger, and a pilgrim here;
Where every sweet is with some bitter fraught;
Where hope is followed by a restless fear.
Enjoyment here, in all its forms, alas!
Is subject to the force of dire decay ;
Pleasures, though long anticipated, pass
Swift as the fleeting moments of a day.

* Ezekiel xvii. 23. ↑ Isaiah xxxiii. 9.

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