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Wilt thou not like the other years
That were before thee, disappear?
Thy burdens, melancholy year?
'Tis fit that all should fade and die,
Yea, Ruin's voice shall shake the spheres;
The weary date of days and years
And let them pass, for what but dust
Are wheeling worlds, and what are we?
Yet, linked to an eternity,
REMOVAL OF THE REMAINS OF COMMODORE
PERRY TO HIS NATIVE LAND.
Went he not out in proud array,
Wreaths on his youthful brow?
Forth to bid others bow.
He went as the devoted should,
Even at a nation's call;
Is wove the funeral pall ?
Ended the watchful warrior's toil,
His mightiest conflict o'er, Returns he now with glorious spoil,
Unto his native shore: He comes, but not with song and shout,
He comes, and eyes are dim; The muffled drum and fife ring out
Their melancholy hymn. How loftily ran his career,
Let vanquished veterans tell; Briefly, we know by sorrow's tear
'Tis whispered in that knell. Yet for him, leader in the fight,
Freshly survives a name;
Of high and spotless fame.
weep o'er blighted bloom, Wailing that youth should die; Hence! his is not the timeless tomb
Where hopes unbudded lie.
That live beyond our tears-
TO ONE THAT MEDITATED SUICIDE.
Thou, whom stern anguish wastes away,
Whose sallow cheek is token
With thee, the lost and broken-
That weary ones inherit; Misery, with relentless fangs,
Hath fastened on thy spirit.
Too weak to bear the petty strife
And vanquish by enduring,
Remorse, unknown, ensuring?
In kindness, wilt thou sever? And snap the cords that link to earth,
Aye, rudely, and forever!
And, rash one! darest thou deface
His tabernacle given,
The dignity of heaven?
To those of thy own nature? Imperious duties to fulfil
Unto thy great Creator?
Bethink thee!-is there not a heart
Whose pulse to thine is beating?
And dost thou not possess a part
In childhood's guileless greeting? Stay thee! a soothing hand is near
To dry the tear that's stealing: And Hope, the bright enchantress, here
Her rainbow is revealing.
'Tis sad, in sorrow's bitter doom
This gay cold world to cumber; Yet who within the sullen tomb,
Uncalled, should seek a slumber? 0, Thou, the framer of my lot,
Who gav'st and who has taken, Do what thou wilt, but leave me not
Thus hopelessly forsaken.
The Temple of the Lord is still,
Forsaken are the golden shrines; Upon Moriah's holy hill
The day-beam of Salvation shines. And hark! a voice along her halls
Is heard, in strains of prophecy: “ Awake, Jerusalem—thy walls
Rebuild, thy glory draweth nigh.
“Now, Israel, shall thy tumults cease,
Up, Judah and with songs adore;
My waiting spirit! go in peace,
Thou hast beheld—what need'st thou more?” 'Tis Inspiration's awful voice,
The utterance of fleeing breath; The soul recalled to bid rejoice,
When quivering at the gate of death.
Yes, favoured one, 'tis thine to trace
His lineaments who dwelt of old;
The Hope of Israel enfold.
I see the lightning of that eye;
The mystic Godhead passes by.
Thou holy Seer! what visions rise,
In long perspective, on thy soul; Ages of glory meet thine eyes,
And unborn years before thee roll. Who would not die as thou would'st die,
When Light and Life attend the bed? Who would not wish, like thee, to lie
Where blessings crown the faithful dead?