438 
THE STAKE. 
Yet the issue of the strife 
Never, never shall repent ! 
Like to the pleasant and heart-freshening breath 
Of sweetest summer, when one warm still day 
Breaks through the chill mists of a wintry spring, 
And hedge and orchard with gay blossoming 
Their unrobed boughs all hastily array, 
Too soon to perish—upon England fell 
Thy bright, brief reign of promise, O! fair son 
Of early-fated Seymour ! and though well 
The bright age, like the late prevailing sun, 
Of thy sweet sister Temperance, upbuilt 
All the fair works dismantled and undone 
By the lost child of wronged Arragon, 
Yet could they not restore the pure blood spilt, 
The treasures pour’d into the lap of death. 
PART II. 
“ And of this busy human heart aweary.”—The Picture. 
Namk of torture! name of terror ! 
Weapon in the hand of error! 
Lending aid to closer bind 
Chains upon the human mind, 
Which a moment’s space may wear them, 
But to atoms then will tear them : 
Phantom to the faint and fearful, 
Haunting memory to the tearful— 
The young hearts whose well-springs lie 
Within reach of misery : 
Husher of the heart’s long ache, 
Peace-bestowing, restful Stake ! 
Would my weary steps had found thee, 
And my tired arms might cling round thee, 
And my heavy head at last 
At thy foot might be down cast. 
Lonely, lonely, on I wander, 
Pathless is the world to me; 
