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Praise trembled still on each expiring breath, | The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair And holy triumph beamed from every eye. Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there!

Ob! what a noble heart was here undone, Then gentle hands their “dust to dust" con- When Science' self destroyed her favourite sign;

son ! With quiet tears, the simple rites are said ; | Yes, she too much indulged thy fond porsuit, And here they sleep, till at the trump divine, She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped The earth and ocean render up their dead. the fruit.

'Twas thine own Genius gave the fatal blow,

And helped to plant the wound that laid thee ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON.

So the struck Eagle stretched upon the plain, CANNING.

No more through rolling clouds to soar again,

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd

And winged the shaft that quivered in his decrees,

heart: Which made that shorten'd span one long

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel disease ;

He nursed the pinion which impelled the Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope

steel, For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope, Meek resignation, pious charity;

While the same plumage that had warmed

his nest, And, since this world was not the world for

Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. thee, Far from thy path removed, with partial

care, Strife, glory, gain, and Pleasure's flowery

AN ELEGY. snare,

C. A. ELTON. Bade earth's teinptations pass thee harmless

A SHADOW on my spirit fell,

When my hush'd footstep from thee pass'd; And fix'd on Heaven thy unreverted eye!

And sad to me thy mild farewell, Oh! mark'd from birth, and nurtur'd for

To me, who found it was thy last; the skies!

And when I saw thee next, a veil In youth, with more than learning's wisdom,

Was drawn upon thy features pale. wise! As sainted martyrs, patient to endure !

They strewed thee, in thy narrow bed, Simple, as unwean'd infancy, and pure!

With roses from thy own loved bowers: Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, In melting anguish memory Aed Which Christ's atoning blood bath wash'd

Back to thy valued rural hours; away!)

And saw thee gentle gliding round, By mortal sufferings now no more oppress’d, Where all to thee was Eden ground. Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destin'd rest! While I-reversed our nature's kindlier The God, whose presence met thee there, doom,

Was with thee in thy slow decays; Pour forth a Father's sorrows on thy tomb? He answered to thy dying prayer,

Whose life had been a hymn of praise : Thy God was nigh-thy Shepherd God,

With comfort of his staff and rod. ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE.

I lay thee where the loved are laid: UNHAPPY White! while life was in its Rest—till their change and thine shall spring,

come; And thy young Muse just waved her joyous Still voices whisper through the shade; wing,

A light is glimmering round the tomb;



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Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish

His dearest earthly treasure to these springs, So fades the lovely blooming flower,
Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and Frail smiling solace of an hour;

So soon our transient comforts fly,
Shall court these salutary springs in vain : And pleasure only blooms to die.
Condemnd, like me, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye,
From the chill brow to wipe the damps of

c. WESLEY. death,

BENEATH, a sleeping infant lies, And watch in dumb despair the short'ning

To earth whose body lent; breath:

More glorious shall hereafter rise, If chance should bring him to this humble

Though not more innocent. line, Let the sad mourner know his pangs were

When the Archangel's trump shall blow, mine.

And souls to bodies join, Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast,

What crowds will wish their lives below, Whose virtue warm’d me, and whose beauty

Had been as short as thine. bless'd, Fram'd ev'ry tie that binds the heart to prove,

AN EPITAPH. Her duty friendship, and her friendship love.

COW PER. But yet rememb’ring that the parting sigh Appoints the just to slumber, not to die, BLAME not the monumental stone we raise, The starting tear I check'd,- I kiss'd the 'Tis to the Saviour's, not the creature's rod,

praise : And not to earth resign'd her, but to God ! Sin was the whole that she could call her own,

Her goodness all deriv'd from Him alone ;
To Sin her conflicts, pains, and griefs she


Her conqu’ring faith and patience He beROBINSON.

stow'd: Bold Infidelity, turn pale, and die!

Reader! mayst thou obtain like precious Beneath this stone four infants' ashes lie:

faith, Say, are they lost or saved ?

To smile in anguish, and rejoice in death! If death's by sin, they sinn'd because they're here;

ANON. If heaven's by works, in heaven they can't appear :

A SOUL prepar'd needs no delays, Reason, ah! how depraved !

The summons come, the saint obeys: Revere the Bible's sacred page: the knot's Swift was his flight, and short the road, antied:

He clos'd his eyes and saw his God. They died,- for Adam sinn'd ;-they live,– The flesh rests here till Jesus come: for Jesus died.

To claim his treasure from the tomb.



I ask'd him, What is time? “Time," he

replied, YOUNG.

I've lost it, Ah the treasure !and he died ! Time in advance, bebind him hides his wings,

I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; Those bright chronometers of days and years; Behold him when pass'd by; what then is They answer'd, “Time is but a meteor's

But his broad piniong swifter than the wind? | And bade me for Eternity prepare.
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghast! cry out at his career. I ask'd the seasons, in their annual round

Which beautify, or desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise,)

“ 'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest WHAT IS TIME?




I ask'd a spirit lost, bat, О the shriek I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares,

That pierced my soul! I shudder while I Wrinkled, and curv'd, and white with hoary speak! hairs;

It cried, " A particle ! a speck! a mite Time is the warp of life," he said, “O tell

Of endless years, duration infinite! The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !”

Of things inanimate, my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply, I ask'd the ancient venerable dead,

“ Time is the season fair of living well, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled; The path to Glory, or the path to Hell." From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd,

I ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said, “ Time sow'd the seeds we reap in this Thine is the present hour, the past is filed; abode !"

Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet,

On any human being, rose or set !" I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's “golden bowl had I ask'd old father Time himself at last; broke;'

But in a moment he flew swiftly past;

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind

To blot old books, and alter their contents, His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind. To pluck the quills from ancient ravens'

wings, I ask'd the mighty Angel, who shall stand To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs, One foot on sea, and one on solid land; To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel, “ By heav'ns, great King, I swear the mys- And turn the giddy round of fortune's tery's o'er !

wheel. Time was," he cried," but Time shall be

no more!



Sad city of the silent place!

Queen of the dreary wilderness,
On all-important time from every age, No voice of life, no passing sound
Though much, and warm, the wise have Disturbs thy dreadful calm around;
urg'd, the man

Save the wild desert-dweller's roar, Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. Which tells the reign of man is o'er, “ I've lost a day-the prince who nobly Or winds that thro' thy portal sigh cried,

Upon their night-course flitting by ! Had been an emperor without his crown; Of Rome? say ratber, lord of human race: The eternal ruins frowning stand, He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. Like giant-spectres of the land; So should all speak : so reason speaks in all : Or o'er the dead like mourners hang, From the soft whispers of that God in man, Bent down by speechless sorrow's pang; Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,

What time, and space, and loneliness, For rescae from the blessing we possess !

All, o'er the sadden'd spirit press, Time the supreme ;-Time is eternity ; Around in leaden slumbers lie Pregnant with all eternity can give;

The dread wastes of infinity, Pregnant with all, that makes archangels Where not a gentle bill doth swell, smile.

Where not a hermit shrub doth dwell; Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth And where the song of wandering flood A power ethereal, only not adored.

Ne'er voiced the fearful solitude.

How sweetly sad our pensive tears
Flow o'er each broken arch that rears

Its grey head through the mists of years !

And where are now the dreams of Fame,

The promise of a deathless name?

Alas! the deep delusion's gone ?
Time's glory is to calm contending Kings, And all, except the mouldering stone,
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, The wreath that deck'd the victor's hair,
To stamp the seal of time on aged things Hath, like his glory, withered there:
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night, And Time's immortal garlands twine
To wrong the wronger till be render right; | O’er desolation's mournful shrine,

To ruinate proud buildings with his hours, Like youth's embrace around decline. And smear with dust their glittering golden towers !

O'er Beauty's dark and desert bed

Ages of dreamless sleep have fled, To fill with worm-boles stately monuments And in the domes where once she smiled, To feed oblivion with decay of things, The whispering weeds are waving wild;

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And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,

To the dash of the waves in their foaming THE FATE OF EMPIRES.


As they break into spray on the ship's tall ANON.

side, The wolf is in thy kingly hall,

That holds thro’ the tumult her path of pride. The lion in thy garden howls, And wilder, bloodier than they all,

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice, The Arab robber round thee prowls : To the gentle sound of a mother's voice; High vengeance smote thee from thy throne; Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, Thou'rt dust and ashes, Babylon!

When from the board and the heartb 'tis

gone. Where are thy pomps, Persepolis ?

The traveller trembles on his way, And some in the camp to the bugle's breath, To hear thy serpents' sullen hiss,

And the tramp of the steed on the echoing Thou mighty daughter of decay !

heath, Thou thing of wonder and of scorn,

And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, Thy night has come without a morn. Which tells that a field must ere night be

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