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TO-MORROW!--mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
How earthly things may pass away!

To-day-while hearts with rapture spring,
The youth to beauty's lip may cling;
To-morrow-and that lip of bliss
May sleep unconscious of his kiss.

To-day-the blooming spouse may press
Her husband in a fond caress;
To-morrow-and the hands that press'd
May wildly strike her widow'd breast.

To-day-the clasping babe may drain
The milk-stream from its mother's vein;
To-morrow-like a frozen rill,
That bosom-current may be still.

To-day-thy merry heart may feast
On herb and fruit, and bird and beast ;
To-morrow-spite of all thy glee,
The hungry worms may feed on thee.

To-morrow!--mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
That even thyself mayest pass away.


JOB IX. 25, 26.

TIME speeds away-away-away:
Another hour-another day-
Another month-another year—

Drop from us like the leaflets sere;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,
The tresses from the temples fall,
The eyes grow dim and strange to all.

Time speeds away-away-away:
Like torrent in a stormy day,

He undermines the stately tower,

Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;
And sweeps from our distracted breast

The friends that loved-the friends that bless'd:
And leaves us weeping on the shore,
To which they can return no more.

Time speeds away-away-away:
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills, can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage
He bears us on-from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless Eternity


THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow:

There's nothing true but heaven!

'And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb:
There's nothing bright but heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we 're driven; And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way: There's nothing calm but heaven!


BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,

And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,-

That Time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were 66 all poetry"

To gentle measure set,

That nought but chasten'd mélody
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove;
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love-
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness,
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow

But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow—

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crush'd flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,

At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim-
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up-to Him?

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He, who himself was undefiled:"

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!


THE morning sun! the morning sun!
How o'er the earth its lustres move,
When its first glance it throws upon

The bright, the glowing heaven above.
The birds seek now each verdant spray,
Now glide on light and joyous wing,
To pour on air their roundelay-

To wake on high their carolling.

The soul of halcyon repose

Sleeps on the soft and silver air;
The zephyr's breath is on the rose,

And on the woodbine's blossoms fair.

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