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Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art !--thy foliage bright

Unchanged the mountain storm can brave:
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,

Or deck the humblest grave!
'Tis still the same! where'er we tread

The wrecks of human power we see
The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to decay and thee !
And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass-thou ivy never sere !*—

And all is thine at length!


WHERE sucks the bee now?-Summer is flying,
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying ;
Violets are gone from their grassy dell,
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away,
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!
For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child !
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but this will stay,
Happy and bright is thy natal day!


Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play

With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day

Of summer and of joy.
Thou hast no heavy thought or dream

To cloud thy fearless eye;
Long be it thus life's early stream

Should still reflect the sky.
Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim

On thy young spirit's wings,
Now in thy morn forget not Him

From whom each pure thought springs :
*“Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas.

So, in the onward vale of tears,

Where'er thy path may be,
When strength hath bow'd to evil years

He will remember thee!


FEAR was within the tossing bark

When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,

And the tall mast was bow'd.
And men stood breathless in their dread,

And baffled in their skill;
But One was there, who rose and said

To the wild sea-be still !
And the wind ceased-it ceased !--that word

Pass'd through the gloomy sky
The troubled billows knew their Lord,

And fell beneath His eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast;
They sank, as flowers that sold to sleep

When sultry day is past.
O Thou, that in its wildest hour

Didst rule the tempest's mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power,

Soft on our souls to brood !
Thou that didst bow the billow's pride

Thy mandate to fulfil !
Oh, speak to passion's raging tide,

Speak, and say, “ Peace, be still !"



THOU, that canst gaze upon thine own fatr boy,

And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee,
And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy,

Come to this tomb ! it hath a voice for thee!
Pray!—thou art blest !mask strength for sorrow's hour,
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.
Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth

Thy thousand hopes; rejoicing to behold


All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth,

All the mind's treasures silently unfold !
Look on this tomb !--for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope he gave.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. EARTH! guard what here we lay in holy trust,

That which hath left our home a darken’d place, Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd with dust;

The light departed with our loveliest face. Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is freeWe have but lent the beautiful to thee. But thou, O Heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken,

And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ; The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,

The faith, the love, the lofty constancyGuide us where these are with our sister flownThey were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine own.

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea,

For ever and the same!
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee;

Those thunders nought can tame.
Oh! many a glorious voice is gone

From the rich bowers of earth,
And hush'd is many a lovely one

Of mournfulness or mirth.
The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore.

Along the wave, is still ;
The harp of Judah peals no more

On Zion's awful hill.
And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord

That breathed the mystic tone;
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd

Are with her eagles flown.
And mute the Moorish horn that rang

O'er stream and mountain free;
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang

Hath died in Galilee.
But thou art swelling on, thou deep,

Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem ne'er to sleep

Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice

To every wind and sky,
And all our earth's green shores rejoice

In that one harmony.
It fills the noontide's calm profound,

The sunset's heaven of gold ;
And the still midnight hears the sound,

Even as first it roll'd.
Let there be silence, deep and strange,

Where sceptred cities rose !
Thou speak’st of One who doth not change-

So may our hearts repose.



Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track.
Thou art a thing to recall the hours
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers;
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove,
And treasure untold in one captive dove.
Are they gone ? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee?
No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine.
To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.


Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Young spirit! rest thee now,
Even while with us thy footstep trod,

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul to its place on high-
They that have seen thy look in death,

No more may fear to die.
Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,

Whence thy meek smile is gone ;
But oh a brighter home than ours,

In heaven is now thine own.


"O! fondly, fervently, those two had loved,
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust;
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years'

And thus they met."
HASTE, with your torches, haste! make firelight round 1*.
They speed, they press—what hath the miner found ?
Relic or treasure--giant sword of old ?

Gems bedded deep-rich veins of burning gold?
* Not so—the dead, the dead! An awstruck band,

In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath,
Before the thing that, in the might of death,
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-
A sleeper, dreaming not !-a youth with hair
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!)
O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay
Had touch'd those pale bright features-yet he wore
A mien of other days, a garb of yore.
Who could unfold that mystery From the throng
A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim,
As if through many tears, through vigils long,,
Through weary strainings :-all had been for him!
Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth's flower and she, the living, stood
With her grey hair, whence hue and gloss had fled
And wasted form, and cheek, whose fushing blood
Had long since ebb’da meeting sad and strange!
-0! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing-all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more--the young, fair face,
Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's grace,
By torchlight and by death:-until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gush'd in low broken tones:-“And there thou art !
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours !-My friend, my friend!

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