Sweet Hope! we bless thy gentle aid
To earth and sorrow given;—
But Memory! dear, immortal maid,
Thy worth is known in heaven.
LATIMER AND RIDLEY.
Fled was the blaze of summer. Autumn's breath
Had scarcely curl'd the leaf, that o'er the tide
Of silver Isis hung. Up through the mass
Of woven foliage gleam'd the holy spires,
The dim, monastic turrets,—stately towers,
And classic domes, where throned Science points
Back through the incumbent cloud of buried years
To Alfred's boasted name. But a rude throng
Come gathering o'er this scenery, to throw
A blot upon its purity and peace.—
Dark brows are there,—and blood-shot fiery eyes,
And preparations dire, as for some scene
Of ignominious death; while all around
The sparkling waters, and serener skies,
And shadow of umbrageous elms, allured
The soul to mercy, and to musing thought.
—But man heeds not, though pitying nature smile,
And in her holiness and beauty seem
As if she knelt, and breathed upon his heart,
To win him from his purpose.
—Through the crowd
Triumphant led, moves on a noble form,
Majestic of demeanor, and array'd
In sacerdotal robe.
