Pulling down what the wise have framed, Children of hoary Eld, they hold This groaning earth in fee, While Time shall stretch his weary wing Stand back! for who may cross the path Stand back! for who may dare the power THE TWO VOICES. MRS. HEMANS. Death and its twofold aspect:-Wintry, one, Two solemn voices, in a funeral strain, "Thou art gone hence!" one sang-" our light is flown, Our Beautiful, that seem'd too much our own, Ever to die! "Thou art gone hence! Our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise! Never thy friend's familiar step to meet, With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet Of thy glad eyes. "Thou art gone home, gone home!" then high and clear Warbled that other voice-" thou hast no tears Again to shed! Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,- "Thou art gone home!-Oh! early crown'd and blest! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like voice of grief— Thou tak'st our summer hence the flower, the tone, The music of our being, all in one Depart with thee! "Fair form, young spirit, morning-vision fled ! Can'st thou be of the dead, the awful dead? The dark unknown? Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, Thy smile is gone!" "Home, home!" once more th' exulting voice arose : "Thou art gone home! from that divine repose Never to roam! Never to say farewell,-to weep in vain,- "By the bright waters now thy lot is cast; Joy for thee, happy Friend!-thy bark hath past The rough sea's foam. Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd; Home, home! thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd, Thou art gone home!" SONG. MOORE. FEAR not that, while around thee Life's varied blessings pour, Whose smile thou seek'st no more. No! dead and cold for ever, Let our past love remain; May the new ties that bind thee Nor e'er of me remind thee, "POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY." J. R. PLANCHE. THE baron is feasting in lighted hall, And forty good yeomen will mount at his call; His kinsman is left in the cold porch to sigh แ O" Poverty parts good company!" Time was when that baron was fain to ride, Poverty parts good company." The baron's broad mantle hath vair on its fold, Time was when that baron was proud to wear Baron and kinsman have sicken'd and died'Scutcheon'd and plum'd is the hearse of pride; But a coffin of the plain elm tree Must keep that proud hearse company! Into the same dark vault they thrust The rich man's clay and the poor man's dust; Side by side again they lie : In the grave we are all of a company. THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. MISS BOWLES. My baby! my poor little one! thou'st come a winter flower ; A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour, Thou comest with the snow-drop, and, like that pretty thing, The power that call'd my bud to life, will shield its blossoming. The snow-drop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and warm, Yet well she 'bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm; I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long-but well I know The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go! The snow-drop-how it haunts me still!-hangs down her fair young head, So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead, And yet the little snow-drop's safe!-from her instruction seek, For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and the meek? Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name, my life; |