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76

HYMN TO VIRTUE.

To guide me from the flowery way
Where pleasure tunes her syren lay:
Deceitful path! where Shame and Care
The poisonous shaft, conceal'd, prepare!
And shield me with thy generous pride,
When Fashion scoffs and fools deride.

Ne'er let Ambition's meteor ray
Mislead my reason, and betray
My fancy with the gilded dream
Of hoarded wealth and noisy fame.
But let my soul consenting flow,
Compassionate of other's woe.
Teach me the kind, endearing art
To heal the mourner's broken heart,
To ease the rankling wounds of Care
And soothe the frenzy of Despair.

So, lovely virgin, may I gain
Admission to thy hallowed fane :
Where peace of mind, of eye serene,
Of heavenly hue and placid mien,
Leads, smiling, thy celestial choir,
And strikes the consecrated lyre.
And may that minstrelsy, whose charm
Can Rage and Care and Grief disarm,
Can Passion's lawless force control,
Soothe, melt, and elevate the soul!

The first Grave.

A SINGLE grave! the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.

A single grave!—my heart has felt
How utterly alone,

In crowded halls where breathed for me
Not one familiar tone:

The shade where forest tree shut out
All but the distant sky :

I've felt the loneliness of night,
When the dark winds pass'd by.

My pulse has quicken'd with its awe,
My lip has gasp'd for breath:
But what were they to such as this-
The solitude of death!

A single grave!-We half forget,
How sunder human ties,
When round the silent place of rest
A gather'd kindred lies.

We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb;
And in the ancient churchyard feel
Solemnity, not gloom.

78

THE FIRST GRAVE.

The place is purified with hope,

The hope that is of prayer ;
And human love and heavenward thought
And pious faith are there.

The wild flowers spring amid the grass;

And many a stone appears,
Carved by Affection's memory,
Wet with Affection's tears.

The golden cord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain ;
And love and hope and fear unite
To bring the past again.

But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow graves for sympathy-
'Tis utterly alone.

I do not know who sleeps beneath,

His history or name;
Whether if lonely in his life,

He is in death the same.

Whether he died, unloved, unmourr'd,
The last leaf on the bough;

Or if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.

Perhaps this is too fanciful :
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.

THE FIRST GRAVE.

It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best;
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less repress'd.

Those gentler charities which draw
Man closer with his kind,
Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.

How many a bitter word 'twould hush,
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!

MISS LANDON.

79

The Death of a Port.

ON a couch of pain, in the prime of youth,
A wasted form was lying;

And all around felt the terrible truth
That the Child of Song was dying.

But, though sunken his eye, there now and then

came

A flash, with such lustre beaming,

That Heaven itself seem'd to lend the flame,
So holy and bright was its gleaming!

F

80

THE DEATH OF A POET.

He knew that his moments were nearly spent,

Nor sought to have them extended;

For the work was done for which he was sent, And his mission of love was ended.

His fervid strains had been often sung
Alike by the great and lowly;

And had waked in the bosoms of old and young
A love for the pure and holy.

And he knew that long when his spirit had pass’d Beyond death's shadowy portal,

Those soul-breathing strains would continue to last,

And would be—like his spirit—immortal!

"O God," he cried, "not for richest store, "To be found in earthly treasure,

"Would I wish among men to linger more, "My soul cannot here find pleasure,

But to dwell with Thee, and behold thy love,
"Where Sorrow entereth never;

From this cold world, O take me above
"To sing at thy feet for ever!"

His prayer was heard,-upon gentle wings
The angels upward bore him,

No longer on earth the poet sings:

But who for this would deplore him?

WILLIAM GURNER.

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