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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,
yet the sweetest of the sweet!
• 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
the seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and Saviour
* 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
LINES UPON A BUTTERFLY,
SEEN ON THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANU.
(REV. WILLUM LINDARD.]
TAIL to thee! thou little fiy,
Thee thus so high liave been assigned
The type of the immortal mind-
Earth scorning thus with rapid flight,
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,
The cooing dove plains out its tale ;
Blue evening comes onward, and scatters
The tires in the western serene;
Festoon’d with their branches of green;
Present cares in the glow of the past!
And sunshine too lovely to last.
Over what we have loved or have lost?
Our visions accomplished or crost,'Tis ours to be calm and resigacd, Faith's star beaming clear on the night of the mind.