Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break,
To separate contemplation, the great whole;
And as the ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye-so here condense thy soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll

In mighty graduations, part by part,

The glory which at once upon thee did not dart,

Not by its fault-but thine: Our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is

That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice

Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
Defies at first our Nature's littleness,

Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate.

Then pause, and be enlighten'd; there is more
In such a survey than the sating gaze

Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore
The worship of the place, or the mere praise
Of art and its great masters, who could raise
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan;
The fountain of sublimity displays

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can.
BYRON, Childe Harold.

64. Burial of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard-not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast;

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow:
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead
And we bitterly thought of the morrow!

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the bell tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone, with his glory !--WOLFE.

65. The Last Man.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself shall die,

Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to weep,
Adown the gulph of Time !

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime,

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired 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
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by;

Saying, 'We are twins in death, proud Sun;
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou, ten thousand thousand years,
Hast seen the tide of human tears

That shall no longer flow.

'What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

'Go,-let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again;

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death —
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall—
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!—

'This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark !—
No! it shall live again and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of victory,
And took the sting from death.

'Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up,
On Nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste ;-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race
On Earth's sepulchral clod,

The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God.-CAMPBELL.

SORROW.

66. The Death of the Flowers.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and

sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead:

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves: the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower, by the brook, in autumn-beauty
stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague

on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will

come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died—
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the
leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

BRYANT.