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Time was, like thee, they life parsest,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest

.

Those graves, with bending osier bax
That nameless heave the crumbled groot
Quick to the glancing thought diseles,
Where Toil and Poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a
The chissel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent step may wear away)
A Middle Race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on bigh

,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stetos
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the Rich or praise the Great
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give

.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades
The bursting earth unveils the shades ;
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shres
They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.

Now from yon black and fun'ral fer,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)

It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a King of Fears am I!
They view me like the last of things :
They make, and then they dread my stings.
Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God :
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead ?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe :
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suff’ ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring sun :
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac’d,
A few and evil years they waste :
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

PARNELL

THE BEACON.

The scene was more beautiful far, to my eye,

Than if day in its pride had array'd it;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arch'd sky

Look'd pure as the spirit that made it.
The murmur arose, as I silently gaz'd

On the shadowy waves' playful motion;
From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blaz'd,

Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast

Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers ;
The sea-bird has flown to her wave-girdled nest

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.
I sigh'd as I look’d from the hills' gentle slope ;

All husb'd was the billows' commotion ;
And I thought that the beacon look'a lovely as hope,

That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past, and the scene is afar,

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul fies

And death stills the soul's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean!

P. M. JAMES

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THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying !

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THE BEACON.

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper ; angels say,

Sister spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?-
Tell me, my soul, can this be Death ?
The world recedes, it disappears !
Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring !
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

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POPE.

The scene was more beautiful far, to bi

Than if day in its pride had array'd i;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azarse

Look'd pure as the spirit that made it
The murmur arose, as I silently gazd

On the shadowy waves' playful matie
From the dim distant isle till the beacut -folie

Like a star in the midst of the weat.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast

Was heard in his wildly breath'd number
The sea-bird has flown to her ware-girls

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers
I sigh'd as I look'd from the hills' gende slip

All husb'd was the billows' commotio ;
And I thought that the beacon look'd loveliam

That star of life's tremulous ocean, The time is long past, and the scene is atz.

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blaz'd on the breast of the billor. In life's closing hour, when the trembling er

And death stills the soul's last emotiat, O then may the seraph of mercy arise

, Like a star on eternity's ocean!

PSALM.
When all thy mercies, O my God!

My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost

In wonder, love, and praise.
When worn with sickness, oft hast thou

With health renew'd my face;
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,

Reviv'd my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss

Hath made my cup run o'er,
And in a kind and faithful friend

Hath doubled all my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ,
Nor is the least a cheerful heart

That tastes those gifts with joy.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL
VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying!

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Through every period of my life

Thy goodness I'll pursue ;
And after death in distant worlds

The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night

Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful heart, O Lord,

Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity, to thee,

A joyful song I'll raise ;
For 0, eternity alone

Can utter all thy praise.

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ADDISON,

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“SEEING WE ARE COMPASSED ABOUT WITH SO

GREAT A CLOUD OF WITNESSES."
Could we but look beyond our sphere,

And trace along the azure sky,
The myriads that were inmates here,

Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high.
Then might we tell of those who see
Our wand'rings from Eternity!
But human frailty cannot gaze,

On such a cloud of splendid light,
As heavens acred court displays,

Of blessed spirits cloth'd in white,
Who from the fears of death are free-
And look from an Eternity.
They look, but ne'er return again,

To tell the secrets of their home,
And kindliest tears for them are vain,

For never! never, shall they come

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Till Time's pale light begin to flee,
Before a bright Eternity.
Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,

Within the golden porch of heav'n,
And see those spirits which appear,

Like stars upon the robe Even.
But do, unseen to us they see
Our wanderings from Eternity.
The crimes of men which heaven saw,

And pitied with a parent's eye ;
Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw,

In mercy from its home on high,-
They look, but all they know or see
Is silent as Eternity.
At noonday hour, or midnight deep,

No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
And though a parent's offspring weep,

No whisper echoes from the sky.
Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
Is known but in Eternity.
Yet we may look beyond our sphere,

On one who shines among the throng ;
And we by Faith may also hear

The triumphs of a glorious song ; And while we gaze on Him, we see The path to this Eternity.

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THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When marshal'd on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

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