No strife shall rage, nor hostile feuds
Disturb those peaceful years;

To ploughshares men shall beat their swords,
To pruning-hooks their spears.

No longer hosts, encountering hosts,
Shall crowds of slain deplore;
They hang the trumpet in the hall,

And study war no more.

Come then, O house of Jacob! come

To worship at his shrine,

And, walking in the light of God,

With holy beauties shine.

VII.

MODERN:

DECEASED WRITERS.

B

ENEATH our feet and o'er our head

Is equal warning given;

Beneath us lie the countless dead,

Above us is the Heaven!

Their names are graven on the stone,

Their bones are in the clay;

And ere another day is gone,
Ourselves may be as they.

Death rides on every passing breeze,

He lurks in every flower;

Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour!

Our

eyes

have seen the

rosy light

Of youth's soft cheek decay,

And fate descend in sudden night

On manhood's middle day.

Our

eyes have seen the steps of age Halt feebly towards the tomb,

And yet shall earth our hearts engage, And dreams of days to come?

Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead!

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply To truths divinely given;

The bones that underneath thee lie

Shall live for Hell or Heaven!