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THANATOPSIS.

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre :-The hills,
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between,
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

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Chanatopsis.

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer' hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,-
Go forth under the open sky, and list

To nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to th' insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place

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And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innummerable caravan, that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go, not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.

BRYANT.

CHRIST is a path if any be misled:
He is a robe, if any naked be:

If any chance to hunger, he is bread:

If

any be but weak, how strong is he!

To dead men, life he is: to sick men, health:

To blind men, sight: and to the needy, wealth:
A pleasure without loss: a treasure without stealth!

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A Vision of Immortality.

Most of our readers, we suppose, have read Bryant's celebrated poem, called "Thanatopsis," and while admiring its beauty, have regretted that it contained no allusion to man's immortality. The following sequel, which though indulging in some poetic license, is much more in accordance with the dignity of man and the truths of Christianity.-Ed." The Friend." I WHO essayed to sing, in earlier days, The Thanatopsis and The Hymn to Death, Wake now the Hymn to Immortality.

Yet once again, Oh man, come forth and view
The haunts of Nature; walk the waving fields,
Enter the silent groves, or pierce again

The depths of the untrodden wilderness,

And she shall teach thee. Thou hast learned before
One lesson-and her Hymn of Death hath fallen

With melancholy sweetness on thine ear;
Yet she shall tell thee with a myriad tongue
That life is there-life in uncounted forms-
Stealing in silence through the hidden roots,
In every branch that swings-in the green leaves,
And waving grain, and the gay summer flowers
That gladden the beholder. Listen now,
And she shall teach thee that the dead have slept
But to awaken in more glorious forms-
And that the mystery of the seed's decay
Is but the promise of the coming life.
Each towering oak that lifts its living head
To the broad sunlight, in eternal strength,
Glorious to tell thee that the acorn died.

The flowers that spring above their last year's grave
Are eloquent with the voice of life and hope-
And the green trees clap their rejoicing hands,
Waving in triumph o'er the earth's decay!
Yet not alone shall flower and forest raise

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