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Ebbs fastly to its finish.—Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall,
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.
Come, then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,
While meditate we may.—There's left us now
But a small portion of what men call time,
To hold communion; for, even now, the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die ;
And though, to me, life has been dark and dreary,
Though hope, for me, has smiled but to deceive,
And disappointment mark'd me as her victim,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me,
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.

Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness :--and it is hard
To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? 0,'none:-another busy brood of beings Will shoot up in the interim, and none Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets Of busy London :--some short bustle's caused, A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all's forgotten. On my grassy grave The men of future times will careless tread,

And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recall my vanishid memory. I did hope
For better things :-I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige. Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise,—and I submit.

Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires !
No more of hope !-the wanton, vagrant hope!
I abjure all.—Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,
Looks to its God, and plumes its wings for heaven.


IF human kindness meets return,

And owns the grateful tie;
If tender thoughts within us burn

To feel a friend is nigh;


O! shall not warmer accents tell

The gratitude we owe
To Him who died, our fears to quell,

Our more than orphan's wo!
While yet his anguish'd soul survey'd

Those pangs he would not flee;
What love his latest words display'd

“ Meet and remember me!”

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Remember Thee! thy death, thy shame,

Our sinful hearts to share !
O Memory, leave no other name
But His recorded there!


I LOVE to muse, when none are nigh,

Where yew-tree branches wave, And hear the winds, with softest sigh,

Sweep o'er the grassy grave.


It seems a mournful music, meet

To soothe a lonely hour;
Sad though it be, it is more sweet

Than that from Pleasure's bower.

I know not why it should be sad,

Or seem a mournful tone, Unless by man the spot be clad

With terrors not its own.

To nature it seems just as dear

As earth's most cheerful site;
The dew-drops glitter there as clear,

The sunbeams shine as bright.

The showers descend as softly there

As on the loveliest flowers;
Nor does the moonlight seem more fair

On Beauty's sweetest bowers.

“Ay! but within-within, there sleeps

Onė, o'er whose mouldering clay The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps,

And wastes that form away.”

And what of that? The frame that feeds

The reptile tribe below,
As little of their banquet heeds,

As of the winds that blow.


In trouble and in grief, O God,

Thy smile hath cheer'd my way;
And joy hath budded from each thorn

That round my footsteps lay.
The hours of pain have yielded good,

Which prosperous days refused;
As herbs, though scentless when entire,

Spread fragrance when they 're bruised. The oak strikes deeper as its boughs

By furious blasts are driven ; So life's vicissitudes the more,

Have fix'd my heart in heaven.
All-gracious Lord! whate'er my lot

In other times may be,
I'! welcome still the heaviest grief

That brings me near to thee.


The autumnal winds had stripp'd the field

Of all its foliage, all its green ;

The winter's harbinger had still'd

That soul of song which cheer'd the scene.
With visage pale, and tottering gait,

As one who hears his parting knell,
I saw a youth disconsolate ;-

He came to breathe his last farewell.

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“ Thou grove! how dark thy gloom to me!

Thy glories riven by autumn's breath!
In every falling leaf I see

A threatening messenger of death.
“O Æsculapius !* in my ear

Thy melancholy warnings chime :-
'Fond youth! bethink thee, thou art here

A wanderer for the last, last time.
"Thy spring will winter's gloom o'ershade,

Ere yet the fields are white with snow;
Ere yet the latest flowerets fade,

Thou, in thy grave, wilt sleep below.'
“I hear the hollow murmuring-

The cold wind rolling o'er the plain-
Alas! the brightest days of spring

How swift! how sorrowful! how vain!
“O wave, ye dancing boughs, 0 wave!

Perchance to-morrow's dawn may see
My mother weeping on my grave:

Then consecrate my memory. * In the Greek mythology, the cock was one of the animals consecrated to Æsculapius, the god of medicine.

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