Blossoms Sharon's shady bower, Than Stamboul's proud minaret. 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 loss 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. O, LET her linger yet awhile With me e-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 She'll not reprove, though love detains Her here awhile, for she Was dear, yet dearer those remains; I'll sit beside her and I'll deem I do but watch her sleep; It may not be-that altered brow To thee my wedded love I gave, Yet is the victory of the grave, OCCASIONED BY AN INCIDENT DURING A STORM. THE parent-bird had built its nest On high where ills might ne'er infest, 'Twas hers with never wearied toil, Ah, happy brood! we heard their notes Joy bade them swell their little throats, O, might such bliss of home remain, Who daily seek, but seek in vain, For peace But sorrow came, to let us know The midnight thunder burst afar, Fierce came the blast, and spire and tree Poor birds! 'twas misery's hour. The morning came and nature shone, T THE INCARNATION. JERUSALEM awakes, Her giant shadows flee; Night's sentinel forsakes The hills of Galilee: And scattering tints of morn have met 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; 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, Now Resurrection crowns the dead. ЕРІТАРН, 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, In generous wine these relics steep, Is it not life? Yet unto me I curse thee, wine! the cause: |