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But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. - Southey.
Sweet to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
The skylark soars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
When faint and heavily he drags
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
In the distant sheep-bell's sound,
148 ADORATION OF DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS WORKS.
But, O, of all delightful sounds,
Of evening or of morn,
ADORATION OP THE DEITY IN THE MIDST OF HIS
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
I '11 seek by day some glade unknown,
Thy heaven, on which't is bliss to look,
I '11 read thy anger in the rock
That clouds a while the day-beam's track,
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
There's nothing dark, below, above,
CHARADE. —By Praed.
Come from my First, ay, come!
For the battle-hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum
Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as thy father fought!
Fall, as thy father fell!
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;— So — onward — and farewell.
Toll ye my Second, toll!
Fling wide the flambeau's light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night.
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; —
So — take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, — ay, — call
Ay, call him by his name!
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave!
A Ns We K. — Campbell.
WINTER. — Bums.
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain do blow;
The blinding sleet and snow;
And roars from bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,
The joyless winter day,
Than all the pride of May;
My griefs it seems to join;
Their fate resembles mine.
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil;
Because they are Thy will!
This one request of mine !)
Assist me to resign.
LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY. — Watts.
It was a brave attempt! adventurous he
Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land,
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.—Mrs
And was thy home, pale, withered thing,
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,