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Pulling down what the wise have framed,
And what the mighty built.

Children of hoary Eld, they hold

This groaning earth in fee,

While Time shall stretch his weary wing
Towards the timeless sea.

Stand back! for who may cross the path
Of creatures void of breath?

Stand back! for who may dare the power
Of Sin, Decay, and Death?

THE TWO VOICES.

MRS. HEMANS.

Death and its twofold aspect:-Wintry, one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from Hope and Joy shut out;
The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.
Wordsworth.

Two solemn voices, in a funeral strain,
Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
Meet in the sky:

"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,-
Never, weigh'd down by memory's clouds, again
To bow thy head.

"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,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away-
Thrice blest to go!"

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like voice of grief—
"Thou art gone hence! Alas! that aught so brief,
So loved should be!

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,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,

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,-
To read of change in eyes beloved again;
Thou art gone home!

"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,
One sigh of her shall wound thee

Whose smile thou seek'st no more.

No! dead and cold for ever,

Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
Far sweeter, happier prove;

Nor e'er of me remind thee,
But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
Thy image haunts me yet;
But how this heart is breaking,
For thy own peace forget.

"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

O" Poverty parts good company!"

Time was when that baron was fain to ride,
And carry the hawk by his kinsman's side;
But fortune can faster than falcon fly,
And "

Poverty parts good company."

The baron's broad mantle hath vair on its fold,
His hose are of velvet, his hood is of gold;
His kinsman, in russet, creeps shivering by,
For "Poverty parts good company."

Time was when that baron was proud to wear
The broider'd badge of his kinsman fair;
But fortune is fickle, and time hath gone by,
And "
Poverty parts good company."

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;

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