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"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"

The solemn priest hath said,

So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a weclome find:

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

MILMAN.

HOPE.

EFLECTED on the lake, I love
To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heavens above,
So restless in the waves below.

Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope how bright soe'er,

Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.

TOWNSHEND.

THE SAILOR'S HOPE.

(OOR child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay;

Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But hope can here her moonlight vigils keep
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep.
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul.
His native hills that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and brownwood blossomed vale,
Rush on his thought: he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind;
Meets, at each step, a friend's familiar face,
And flies, at last, to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her eye the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While long neglected, but at length caressed,
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,
Points to the master's eyes, (where'er they roam,)
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.

CAMPBELL.

THE DYING POET'S HOPE.

It is well known that the messenger who brought the intelligence that the laureate crown had been decreed to Tasso, found him dying in a convent.

OLD on Torquato's silence fell

The shadow of the tomb,

When sounds of triumph reached his cell,

Amid the cloister's gloom :

"Awake! the crown awaits thee now;

Ccme, bind the laurel to thy brow.

Haste where the peerless capitol

Two thousand years hath shone;
Arise! for Rome and glory call
Thee to their ancient throne;

And they had but one name of old—
Be thine with Petrarch's fame enrolled!"

"Vain voice! thou comest," said the bard, “When hope itself is o'er;

But now my spirit's depths are stirred

By dreams of earth no more.

For who would deem the mirage true,
With living waters in his view?

Yet I have loved the praise of men
As none will e'er avow;

How prized had been thy hidings then!
How worthless are they now!
Sore was the travail, and the gain
Is found indeed—but found in vain!

Why came it not when o'er my life
A cloud of darkness hung?
And years were lost in fruitless strife,
But still my heart was young!
How hath the shower forgot the spring,
And fallen in autumn's withering.

Long in mine eyes the golden sand
Of life shone false and fair;
Like him who saw the promised land,
But might not enter there.

The dimness of my soul hath past—
I see a better land at last:

A land where blight hath never been,
Where laurels never fade,

But keep the heart, too, ever green
In their immortal shade;

Unlike the proudest palms of earth,
Which shadow but the desert's dearth.

Yet still it lives-my first, last dream—
Unchanged by time or fate

Woe for the blight that early came—
The dew that fell so late!

Woe for the hope whose joys departs-
For the lost love of many hearts!

But to the power of hope and faith
Eternity is given :

And all that love hath lost on earth,
May yet be found in heaven!
Go, cast your dying laurels down,
For Tasso wins a brighter crown!"

FRANCES BROWN.

GOOD

WEEP NOT FOR ME.

HEN the spark of life is waning,
Weep not for me;

When the languid eye is straining,
Weep not for me:

When the feeble pulse is ceasing,
Start not at its swift decreasing,
'Tis the fettered soul's releasing;
Weep not for me.

When the pangs of death assail me,
Weep not for me;

Christ is mine-he cannot fail me,

Weep not for me.

Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour

From his love my soul to sever,

Jesus is my strength for ever

Weep not for me.

DALE.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

ET Vanity adorn the marble tomb

With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,

Fast by a brook, a fountain's murmuring wave;

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

MY GRAVE.

AR from the city's ceaseless hum,
Hither let my relics come:-
Lowly and lonely be my grave,

Fast by the streamlet's oozing wave,
Still to the gentle angler dear,
And heaven's fair face reflecting clear.
No rank luxuriance from the dead
Draw the green turf above my head,
But cowslips here and there be found,
Sweet natives of the hallowed ground,
Diffusing Nature's incense round!
Kindly sloping to the sun
When his course is nearly run,
Let it catch his farewell beams,
Brief and pale as best beseems;
But let the melancholy yew,
Still to the cemetery true,
Defend it from his noontide ray,

Debarring visitant so gay.

And when the robin's fitful song

Is hushed the darkling boughs among,

BEATTIE.

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