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AYE, let us think of Him awhile, That, with a coffin for a boat, Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, And for our table choose a tomb : There's dark enough in any

skull To charge with black a raven plume ; And for the saddest funeral thoughts A winding-sheet bath ample room, Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, Hath writ the common doom. How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, As if in tears it wept for them, The many human families That sleep around its stem ! How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet ! Lo! here the best, the worst, the world Doth now remember or forget, Are in one common ruin hurl'd, And love and hate are calmly met ; The loveliest eyes that ever shone, The fairest hands, and locks of jet. Is 't not enough to vex our souls, And fill our eyes, that we have set Our love upon a rose's leaf, Our hearts upon a violet? Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yer; And, sometimes, at their swift decay

Its sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly, here, is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;
A place where all things mournful meet,

yet the sweetest of the sweet!
T'he stillest of the still!
With what a pensive beauty fall
Across the mossy mouldering wall
That rose-tree's clustering arches! See
The robin red-breast warily,
Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest!
Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest
At the firesides of men-but shy
Through all the sunny-summer hours-
He hides himself among the flowers
In his own wild festivity.
What lulling sound, and shadow cool,
Hangs half the darken'd church-yard o'er,
From thy green depths, so beautiful,

gorgeous sycamore!
Oft hath the lowly wine and bread,
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent;
Where many a bright and hoary head,
Bowed at that awful sacrament.
Now all beneath the turf are laid,
On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.
Alone that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul

up silently
To heaven, with all its dreams!
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song,-half bliss, half woe,-
The voice so lonely seems!





• WHEN spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laugh

ing soil; When summer'a balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the

flood,In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker

good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love

the shade, The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy

glade, The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, Che moon and stars their Master's name in silent pomp


the lord of nature, expectant of the sky

alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? No; let the

forsake his


the seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and Saviour

bonour thee.

* Shall man,
Shall man,

• The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer

fade, The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake the shade, The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their old

decree, But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to





TAIL to thee! thou little fiy,
Uplifted by that beauteous wing,
Rich in each ever varying dye
That greets the gaze-enraptured eye;
Such as the clouds of evening bring,
When sets the sun that paints the sky.
Not idly lent, those wings that lift

Thee thus so high liave been assigned

The type of the immortal mind-
To man on earth Heaven's brightest gift:

Earth scorning thus with rapid flight,
As high as thought, as fancy swift,

They bear thee from the realms of night,

Above man's path--this mountain white. While toil-worn man, with faltering feet,

Ascends the mount, leaves those beneath, The

purer air thy winglets beat; And while he heaves his hurried breath.

Like that which marks the hour of death, Thou gambol'st here aloft and fleet; And as thou fiest, thou seem'st to say. This is to higher realms the way; Leave the cold earth, and come away!



Ilow coft is the sound of the river,

Stealing down through the green piny dale,
Where the eunbeams of eventide quiver
Through the scarce-stirring foliage, and ever

The cooing dove plains out its tale ;
And the blackbird melodiously sings
An anthem, reminding of innocent things.

Blue evening comes onward, and scatters

The tires in the western serene;
And the shadows of Lebanon's daughters,
Narkly imaged, ontspread on the waters,

Festoon’d with their branches of green;
The clouds journey past, and below
Are reflected, in brightness, their margins of snow'.
Oh, sweet is the vision that loses

Present cares in the glow of the past!
As the light of reflection reposes
On youth, with its blossoming roses,

And sunshine too lovely to last.
Sweet dreams! that have sparkled and gone.
Like torrents of blue over ledges of stone.
But why should break forth our repining,

Over what we have loved or have lost?
Whether fortune be shaded or shining,
Our destiny bright or declining,

Our visions accomplished or crost,'Tis ours to be calm and resigacd, Faith's star beaming clear on the night of the mind.

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