THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

YE sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,

His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,

Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,

And leaves the smile of his departure spread

O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.

Why weep ye then for him, who, having won

The bound of man's appointed years, at last,

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,

Serenely to his final rest has passed;

While the soft memory of his virtues yet

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?

BRYANT.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the
dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICH

MOND, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias."-ST. MATTHEW.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build, but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away,
For see, they would pin him below
In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt
with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a fear and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before,

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,

Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain; Who hide in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board!
But the guests are all mute at their
pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! They have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,

Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's