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Driven by the northern gale with tempests

fraught:

And such is man;

He hangs on greatness for a span,
And is forgot.

Life is-what?

It is the sound of cannon near
That strikes upon the startled ear,
And ceases e'er we can distinguish aught:
And such is man;

He frights and blusters for a span,
And is forgot.

Life is what?

It is the swallow's sojournment,
Which, ere green summer's robe is rent,
Flies to some distant bourne by instinct taught:
And such is man;

He rents his dwelling for a span,
And is forgot.

And is this life?

Oh yes, and had I time to tell,

A thousand shapes more transient still; But while I speak, fate whets his slaughterous knife:

And this is man ;

While reck'ning o'er life's little span, ›
Death ends the strife.

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Ir speaks to us, it teaches us-a mystery—a tone!

We feel there is a silent voice that speaks to us alone:

We cannot pass a blade of grass unheeded by the way,

For it whispers to our thoughts, and we the silent voice obey.

We climb the rugged mountain steep, we view the distant scene,

Around, afar, beneath, the fields where Labor's sons have been;

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No hum of human voice is there; and yet can we depart,

And hear not there the silent voice that whispers to the heart?

We wander in the valleys, or we thread the mazy wood,

Amid the giant oaks that time and tempest have withstood;

The silent voice is speaking there in every leaf and bough,

The voice that spoke in ages past, that speaks prophetic now.

We view the Heaven's broad expanse; the

cloudless realms afar

Are eloquent; we hear a voice in every shining star;

And sweetly falls that silent voice which speaks of Hope and Love,

Like gentle dews upon the heart from Heaven's full urn above.

The voiceless flowers have each a tone that through Creation rings,

The silent brook a pleasant song that still of Nature sings;

The light and shade-the passing years-the seasons, as they roll

Mysterious are their voices, but they sink into the soul.

We turn toward the glowing East, we mark the fading West;

The silent voice still speaks to us, in labor or

in rest.

Along the mighty ocean borne, upon the flow'rclad sod,

That sound unceasing speaks to us—that silent Voice is God!

HOHENLINDEN.

T. Campbell.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn !—but scarce yon level sun, Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens!
On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few! few, shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

MELROSE.

Walter Scott.

Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go, visit it by the pale moonlight,
For the gay beams of lightsome day,
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white-
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower-
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seemed framed of ebon and ivory-
When silver edges the imagery

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die,

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave

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