The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to

stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their

way.

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, [behind?

Nor cast one longing, lingering look

On some fond breast the parting soul relies;

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries;

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate:

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him, at the peep of
dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

And 'tis a mournful thought To think the verdure of life's lingering day Is but with ruin fraught,

The pledge and prelude of its sure decay.

-:0:

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

1781-1849.

LET ME REST.

He does well who does his best:
Is he weary? let him rest:
Brothers! I have done my best,
I am weary-let me rest.
After toiling oft in vain,
Baffled, yet to struggle fain;
After toiling long, to gain
Little good with mickle pain;
Let me rest-but lay me low,
Where the hedge-side roses blow;
Where the little daisies grow,
When the winds a-maying go;
Where the footpath rustics plod;
Where the breeze-bowed poplars nod;
Where the old woods worship God;
Where His pencil paints the sod;
Where the wedded throstle sings;
Where the young bird tries his wings;
Where the wailing plover swings,
Near the runlet's rushy springs;
Where, at times the tempest's roar,
Shaking distant sea and shore,
Still will rave old Barnesdale o'er,
To be heard by me no more!
There, beneath the breezy west,
Tired and thankful, let me rest,
Like a child, that sleepeth best
On its gentle mother's breast.

LOVE STRONG IN DEATH.

WE watched him while the moonlight,

Beneath the shadowed hill,

Seemed dreaming of good angels,
And all the woods were still.
The brother of two sisters

Drew painfully his breath:

A strange fear had come o'er him,
For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever

Burned darkly on his cheek,

And often to his mother
He spoke, or tried to speak:
"I felt, as if from slumber
I never could awake:
Oh, mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead weight is on me,
A heavy weight like lead;
My hands and feet seem sinking
Quite through my little bed;
I am so tired, so weary,

With weariness I ache:
Oh, mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
Some little token give me,

Which I may kiss in sleep-
To make me feel I'm near you,
And bless you, though I weep.
My sisters say I'm better--

But then, their heads they shake: Oh, mother, give me something To cherish for your sake! Why can't I see the poplar,

The moonlit stream and hill,
Where, Fanny says, good angels
Dream, when the woods are still.
Why can't I see you, mother?
I surely am awake:

Oh, haste! and give me something
To cherish for your sake!"
His little bosom heaves not,

The fire hath left his cheek,
The fine chord-is it broken?
The strong chord-could it break?
Ah, yes! the loving spirit

Hath winged his flight away,—
A mother and two sisters
Look down on lifeless clay.