Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, 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, "What though beneath thee man puth forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Entail'd on human hearts. "Go,-let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recal Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretch'd in diseases' shapes abhorr'd, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death- The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall— Receive my parting ghost! "This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; And took the sting from death. "Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- The darkening universe defy Or shake his trust in God." THE DYING GIRL-CONSUMPTION. Montgomery. A BEAUTY clothes her hectic cheek, They make the sadden'd hearer sigh; For softer sink they in their cadence far, Than Autumn's dying tone beneath some mournful star. They bore her to that healthful isle Whose rocks of terrac'd verdure rise And catch the morn's celestial smile, Responsive to the greeting skies; And vainly prophesied the island breeze Would freshen her white cheeks, and waft away disease. But there she sicken'd, day by day, With such clear brightness did her eyeballs roll, For mother too, and far-off home, Under the green turf, where loved sisters lay, She would her dust might wait the awful Judgment-day. And they behold her once again In her own room, with placid brow; Yet, like a pulse of rosy light at even, Seldom she sighs, but veils within Much that would grieve fond Love to know, She tries to check their overflow; Safe in the arms of Jesu rests her soul, Nor does the early grave with gloom the mind control. Not for herself, but for the heart Of love parental, she could weep; And make some watching gazer weep, As faintly through her lips there steals a word- She dies, as beauty ever dies When sad consumption finds a tomb- And on her face a healthless bloom; No harsh transition, but a soft decay, Like dream-born tones of night, that melt by dawn away. And now, the dying scenes advance For death-gleams in that deepen'd glance Betray the egress of the soul; Solemn she is, but no complaining sigh Breaks from a burden'd heart, to think her youth must die. They wheel her round each garden-walk, And soothe her when she seem'd afraid; While danced her ringlets as she prattled on, More playful than the birds she loved to gaze upon. She looks, as they alone who feel The last of earth before them lies, For tree and turret, woods and uplands, all Of soft dejection sweetly sound. The landscape, like a conscious mourner, seems Now, to her chamber back return'd, Just as the broad horizon burn'd With the last blush day left behind Her eye was center'd in the dying sun, Fading like feeble youth, before life's course is run. Hush'd is the breezeless air, and deep The awe around each mourner stealing; Death is too grand for outward feeling! THE FISHERMAN'S BRIDE, Goslin. THE tempest swept fiercely across the wild deep, And the death-watch tick'd loud as she silently lay, And the bright dreams of pleasure soon melted away Morn came, but the storm still fearfully rag'd, And the terror of Kathleen was still unassuag'd- On the dangerous shore she now fearlessly rov'd, A shriek pass'd her lips that rose high o'er the storm, And a mighty wave ebbing bore out the fair form Of THE BETTER LAND. Mrs. Hemans. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land; Thou call'st its children a happy band: Mother, Oh! where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?— Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?" "Not there-not there, my child!” L "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, "Is it far away, in some regions old, "Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy; CATO'S SOLILOQUY. Addison. It must be so ;-Plato, thou reasonest well ;- Or whence this secret dread and inward horror Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, Eternity!-[Rises and comes forward.]-Thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! Through all her works)-he must delight in virtue; But when or where this world was made for Cæsar, I am weary of conjectures: this must end 'em. [Goes back to the table, laying his hand on his sword.] |