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We buried bim darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning-
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow!
And o'er bis cold ashes upbraid him-
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory : We cary'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stone
But we left him alone with his glory.
Oh, say not that my heart is cold
To aught that once could warm it
No more has power to charm it-
One glow of fond emotion
And shared my wild devotion!
In rapt and dreamy sadness;
With Fancy's idle gladness :
In Nature's features glowing;
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.
Stem duty rose, and frowning fung
His leaden chain around me; With iron look and sullen tongue
He mutter'd, as he bound me: “The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,
Unfit for toil the creature;
But what have slaves with Nature ?"
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
That thou couldst mortal be:
The time would e'er be o'er,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And think 'will smile again;
That I must look in vain!
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
Sweet Mary! thou art dead !
All cold and all serene-
And where thy smiles have been !
Thou seemest still mine own;
And I am now alone!
Thou hast forgotten me;
In thinking too of thee:
Of light ne'er seen before,
And never can restore!
THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.
I must tune up my harp's broken string,
For the fair has commanded the strain ;
But yet such a theme will I sing,
That I think she'll not ask me again.
And that Beauty, the flower, must fade;
She'll frown at the words I have said.)
They come-and as quickly they fly:
Yet the Spring sees it open and die.
Yet the life of a lily 's a day;
To-morrow must vanish away.
How many thy charms most desire!
And Beauty with Youth must expire.
That my song in my sorrow I steep;
I must lay down my harp, and must weep.
The harp, as it fell from my hand;
And she utter'd her awful command :
For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain-
Thy tears and thy pity disdain.
Such a charm as Religion has lent;
With a smile like the smile of content.
No hue, no complexion can brave;
But I will not yield to the grave."
REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.
If there were no other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth, than that we may never have an old age vouchsafed to us in which we may recall him to our thoughts ; that between us and that old age there may be a great gulf fixed that we shall never pass ; if this were the only reason, should it not be enough? Nay, the sin of thus trifling with him and our own immortal souls, by deferring their consideration to a future opportunity, may be the very means of provoking him to withhold that opportunity for ever.
But there is another reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our youth are the days of our blessings. It would be hard to find, throughout the whole range of creation, a more glorious and interesting object than youth just entering into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his course. Set him alongside of the noblest animal of any other species; compare him with the old and decaying members of his ownand what a difference! In those days we enter into life with a shower of God's blessings upon our heads; we come adorned with all the choicest gifts of the Almighty; with strength of body, with activity of limb, with health and vigor of constitution, with everything to fit us both for labor and for enjoyment; if not endowed with a sufficiency, endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining it for ourselves by an honest and manly industry; with senses keen and observing; with spirits high, lively, and untameable, that shake off care and sorrow whenever they attempt to fasten upon our mind, and that enable us to make pleasure for ourselves, where we do not find it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification from things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation, and disappointment.
But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind and the memory, with which we have been endowed by the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. Alas! we seldom think what an astonishing gift is that understanding which we enjoy—the bright light that God has kindled within us—until our old age comes, when we find that that understanding is wearing away, and that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bitterly, most bitterly, what it is to bave enjoyed, in the days of our youth, that privilege which seems to be withheld from all the animals by whom we are surrounded—even the privilege of knowing that there is a God; the privilege even of barely thinking upon such a Being; but more than that, the privilege of studying and understanding the astonishing variety of his works, of observing the ways of his providence, of admiring his power, his wisdom, and bis goodness; the power of acquiring knowledge of a thousand different kinds, and the power of laying it up in our memory, and using it when we please; and this in the days of our youth, when the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, and when we actually seem to take knowledge by force, and when the memory
is large and spacious, so as to admit and contain the good things that we learn; and where the place that should be filled by know. ledge has not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and anxieties.
THE WORLDLING'S AND THE CHRISTIAN'S YOKE.
There is the yoke of pride; and who has not felt its weight? There is scarcely a day of our lives in which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with direct affront; at other times, we do not think we are treated with the respect we deserve; at other times, we find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which we would wish them to hold; but, above all, how often do we find ourselves lowered in our own opinion ! and then the yoke of pride becomes more uneasy by our endeavors to regain our own good opinion, and to hide the real state of the case from our conscience.
But the Christian's yoke is humility; its very nature depends upon humility : for no one has submitted to the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until fully sensible of his own unworthiness, and, consequently, of his want of the merits of a Redeemer. Thus has the Christian become acquainted with the plague of his own heart—his sin has been often before him; and, however deeply he may lament its guilt, he has lost that blind and haughty selfsufficiency that makes him uneasy at the neglect of others, or afraid to stand the scrutiny of self-examination.
There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality—that galling yoke which even those who wear it cannot bear to think upon; and, therefore, they still continue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy, lest they should have time to think on their lost and disgraceful situation. Those miserable men, when the carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they are bearing. They then feel what it is to load their bodies with pain and disease, and their everlasting souls with every foul and sinful thought; to have brutalized their nature, or to have sunk it by intoxication, into a state of which brutes seem incapable; and they then feel the weight of their yoke, when this indulgence has put them into such a state of madness and insensibility that they may commit a crime which will be the yoke and the burden of their consciences for the rest of their lives. Is it necessary to compare the Christian yoke with this? We will not disgrace it by naming it in the same breath.
Then there is the yoke of covetousness: and who does not know