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Blossoms Sharon's shady bower,

Fairer than thy sensual seat;
Loftier rises Salem's tower,

Than Stamboul's proud minaret.
Haste thee to yon bannered steep

Where the Iman beckons thee;
Haste thee! I will go and weep

At the foot of Calvary.

1822.

The loss of the breath from a beloved object, long suffering in pain and certainly to die, is not so great a privation as the last Joss of her beautiful remains, if they continue so.

The victory of the grave is sharper than the sting of death.-Moore's Life of Sheridan.

0, let her linger yet awhile

With me —that lovely clay,–
Those features where death seems to smile-

o, let her longer stay.

Let me again adorn her hair

With flowers she loved so well;
Again that bosom seek, and there

My every grief dispel.

She'll not reprove, though love detains

Her here awhile, for she
Was dear, yet dearer those remains;

0, let her stay with me.

I'll sit beside her and l’ll deem

I do but watch her sleep;
She looks so heavenly in that dream,

I cannot choose but weep.

It may not be that altered brow

Tells of corruption's hour;
It may not, must not be, and now

O Death, I feel thy power.

To thee my wedded love I gave,

In silent sorrowing;
Yet is the victory of the grave,

Severer than thy sting:

OCCASIONED BY AN INCIDENT DURING A STORM.

The parent-bird had built its nest

'Mid poplar boughs secure,
On high where ills might ne'er infest,

Nor treacherous foes allure.
'Twas hers with never wearied toil,

The toil that mothers love-
To gather for her young, the spoil

Of field and flowery grove.
Ah, happy brood! we heard their notes

With every rising sun;

Joy bade them swell their little throats,

When day its course had run.
0, might such bliss of home remain,

A lesson for the proud,
Who daily seek, but seek in vain,

For peace amid the crowd !
But sorrow came, to let us know

The bliss that mortals prize, Can never thrive unmixed below,

Its home is in the skies. Is even innocence like

yours, Sweet birds! a prey to ill? Then, what to guilt repose ensures,

Or whispers, “peace, be still!” The midnight thunder burst afar,

The whirlwind rode on high; The tremblers shrunk, for them no star

Looked out upon the sky. Fierce came the blast, and spire and tree

Quivered beneath its power; Mankind were safe, alas, for ye

Poor birds! 'twas misery's hour. The morning came and nature shone,

Yet heard we not the song, 0, heart-subduing was the moan

That mother poured along:
The tempest passed not harmless by,

The lightning scathed the bough;
Abroad the scattered fragments lie,

Where are her offspring now!

T

THE INCARNATION.

JERUSALEM awakes,

Her giant shadows flee; Night's sentinel forsakes

The hills of Galilee: And scattering tints of morn have met Above the brow of Olivet.

;

In ruins slept a world

Once innocent and fair His banner sin unfurled,

And Death trod proudly there. Darkness held empire till afar, Symbol of hope, rose Bethlehem's Star.

The angel choir that night

Brought tidings down to man;
On floods of wavy light,

Celestial music ran:
Glory to God! Good will to earth,
Salvation by Immanuel's birth!”

Light broke on Syrian plains

To cheer a world in wo;
And there were heard the strains

That none but angels know:
That light shall shine from sun to sun,
That song through every clime shall run.

The chambers of the tomb

Yield renovating breath ;
He snatched from these their gloom,

And victory from death:
Now spices flow along that bed,
Now Resurrection crowns the dead.

EPITAPH, ,

TAKEN FROM A TOMB IN THE CATHEDRAL OF SIENNA.

“ Wine gives life! it was death to me. I never beheld the morning sun with sober eyes ; even my bones are thirsty.-Stranger! sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the cup and depart."

THUS VERSIFIED:

Even here where I long vigils keep,

Do thou the goblet fill;
In generous wine these relics steep,

My bones are thirsty still.
Pour out oblations on my grave!

Dost start?—nay, do not fear, For of that cup, the maniac slave

Now powerless lies here.

Is it not life? Yet unto me

The blight of hope it was ; My years were given to misery;

I curse thee, wine ! the cause: Brighter than morning was my lot,

But serpents wreathed the bowl ;

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