Ah! sweetly they slamber, nor hópe, love, | The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, IN Wales, in Switzerland, and in some parts of France, flowers are planted by the hand of affection on the graves of departed relatives. It is a touching and beautiful custom, and, in the first-mentioned country, even the peasant may often be seen bending over the hallowed turf; and as he inserts into the sod some new plant or flower, he performs it with a feeling and a delicacy which do honour to his unsophisticated heart. FAIR flowers in sweet succession should arise, Through the long, blooming year, above the grave; To hymn the closing year! And, when the touch The green and glittering Ivy, and all plants— All hues and forms delicious that adorn FUNERAL RITES. AMERICAN. O BURY not the dead by day, When the bright sun is in the sky, But let the evening's mantle gray Upon the mouldering ashes lie, And spread around its solemn tone, The gaudy glare of noon-day light Could tears revive the dead, Rivers should swell our eyes; Could sighs recal the spirit fled, We would not quench our sighs Till love return'd this alter'd mien, And all the embodied soul were seen. Bury the dead, and weep In stillness o'er the loss; Bury the dead-in Christ they sleep Who bore on earth his cross: And from the grave their dust shall rise In his own image to the skies! THE FAULTS OF THE DEAD LIE IN THEIR GRAVE. SOTHEBY. HARD is his heart who never at the tomb Seem to obliterate the sense of wo. Lo! on the mirror bright of former days, Whereon we love to gaze, Repicturing the scene of happiness, No forms unkind intrude; O'er each hard feature rude, Gather the shadows of forgetfulness; While all that minister'd delight, Floats like a blissful dream before the sight. 'Tis as a pleasant land by moonlight seen, Where each harsh form that met the day, In darkness dies away; Smooth gleams and tender shadows steal between, While the pale silvery orb glides peaceful o'er the scene. THE LAST MAN. CAMPBELL. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die,' Before this mortal shall assume Its Immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! Some had expir'd in fight-the brands Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread: And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! Yet prophet-like, that lone one stood, Saying, "We're twins in death, proud Sun, "Tis Mercy bids thee go For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth The vassals of his will; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Its piteous pageants bring not back, Of pain anew to writhe; Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. |