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The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes-like the flower and the weed

That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes-even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen ;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink,

To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling,
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved-but their story we cannot unfold,
They scorned-but the heart of the haughty is cold,
They grieved-but no wail from their slumbers may come,
They joyed-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died-ay, they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea; hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile, and the tear, and the song, and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud—
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

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OH! Youth is like the springtide morn,
When roses bloom on Jordan's strand,
And far the turtle's voice is borne


Through all Judea's echoing land!
When the delighted wanderer roves
Through cedar woods and olive groves,

That spread their blossoms to the day;
And climbs the hill, and fords the stream,
And basks him in the noontide beam,
"Oh! I would live alway."

But Age is like the winter's night,

When Hermon wears his mantle cloud,
When moon and stars withdraw their light,
And Hinnom's blast is long and loud;
When the dejected pilgrim strays
Along the desert's trackless maze,

Forsaken by each friendly ray;
And feels no vigor in his limb,
And finds no home or earth for him,
And cries, amid the shadows dim,
'I would not live alway."


Oh! Youth is firmly bound to earth,

When hope beams on each comrade's glance; His bosom chords are tuned to mirth,

Like harp-strings in the cheerful dance;
But Age has felt those ties unbound,
Which fixed him to that spot of ground

Where all his household comforts lay;
He feels his freezing heart grow cold,
He thinks of kindred in the mould,
And cries, amid his grief untold,
"I would not live alway."


THE fool hath said, "There is no God:"
No God!-Who lights the morning sun,
And sends him on his heavenly road,

A far and brilliant course to run ?
Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,
And bids the planets, one by one,
Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp?


No God!-Who gives the evening dew,

The fanning breeze, the fostering shower? Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough,

And paints the summer's noontide flower? Who spreads in the autumnal bower, The fruit-tree's mellow stores around;

And sends the winter's icy power, T'invigorate the exhausted ground?

No God!-Who makes the bird to wing

Its flight like arrow through the sky, And gives the deer its power to spring

From rock to rock triumphantly? Who formed Behemoth, huge and high, That at a draught the river drains, And great Leviathan to lie, Like floating isle, on ocean plains?

No God!-Who warms the heart to heave
With thousand feelings soft and sweet,
And prompts the aspiring soul to leave.

The earth we tread beneath our feet,
And soar away on pinions fleet,
Beyond the scene of mortal strife,

With fair ethereal forms to meet, That tell us of an after life?

No God!-Who fixed the solid ground
On pillars strong, that alter not?
Who spread the curtained skies around?

Who doth the ocean bounds allot?
Who all things to perfection brought
On earth below, in heaven abroad ?—

Go ask the fool of impious thought That dares to say,-"There is no God!"


TO-MORROW!-Mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day,
How earthly things may pass away!

To-day-while hearts with rapture spring,
The youth to beauty's lip may cling;
To-morrow-and that lip of bliss
May sleep unconscious of his kiss.

To-day-the blooming spouse may press
Her husband in a fond caress;
To-morrow-and the hands that pressed,
May wildly strike her widowed breast.

To-day-the clasping babe may drain.
The milk-stream from its mother's vein;
To-morrow-like a frozen rill,
That bosom-current may be still.

To-day-the merry heart may feast
On herb and fruit, and bird and beast;
To-morrow-spite of all thy glee,
The hungry worms may feast on thee.

To-morrow!-Mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day,
That e'en thyself may pass away.


THIS poet was born of a family distinguished in the history of Connecticut, at New Haven, on the 26th of September, 1789. He graduated at Yale College, with a high reputation for abilities and scholarship, in 1808, and afterwards entered upon the business of a merchant. His principal works are "The Vision of Judgment," published in 1812; "Percy's Mosque," published originally while he was on a visit to England, in 1820; “Hadad,” which appeared in 1825, and "Demetria," written in 1816, but not printed until it was included in the collection of his works which he gave to the world in 1840, a few months before his death. As a poet, Mr. Hillhouse possessed qualities seldom found united: a masculine strength of mind, and a most delicate perception of the beautiful. With an imagination of the loftiest order with the vision and the faculty divine" in its fullest exercise, the wanderings of his fancy were chastened and controlled by exquisite taste. The grand characteristic of his writings is their classical beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost, yet there is no exuberance, no sacrifice to false and meretricious taste. He threw aside the gaudy and affected brilliancy with which too many set forth their poems, and left his to stand, like the doric column, charming by its simplicity.



As, when from some proud capital that crowns
Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze
Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog
Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers,
Bright on the eye rush Brahma's temples, capped
With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets,

Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domes,
Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun;
So from the hill the cloudy curtains rolled,
And, in the lingering lustre of the eve,
Again the Saviour and his seraphs shone.
Emitted sudden in his rising, flashed

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