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Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.


Another of JAMES MONTGOMERY's poems, whose simplicity and truth recommend them to all hearts. They are not so much admired, perhaps, as loved, but they will live when many finer works are forgotten.

ONCE, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man: and who was he?
Mortal!-howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone :-

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;

Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;

Had friends, his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.

He loved,

but whom he loved the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
O she was fair, but nought could save,

Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encounter'd all that troubles thee;
He was-whatever thou hast been,
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon and stars, and earth, and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began
Of HIм afford no other trace


The Rev. C. R. TRENCH, a writer who is evidently of the school of Wordsworth, has published a poem which may fairly claim to appear among any selections of British poetry. There is something singular and beautiful in the following.

WE walk'd within the church-yard bounds,
My little boy and I—

He laughing, running happy rounds,

I pacing mournfully.

"Nay, child! it is not well," I said,


Among the graves to shout,

To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout."

A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play,

A moment still'd his joyous tongue,
Almost as hush'd as they.

Then, quite forgetting the command,
In life's exulting burst

Of early glee, let go my hand,
Joyous as at the first.

And now I did not check him more,
For, taught by Nature's face,
I had grown wiser than before,
Even in that moment's space.

SHE spread no funeral pall above
That patch of churchyard ground;
But the same azure vault of love
As hung o'er all around.

And white clouds o'er that spot would pass
As freely as elsewhere;

The sunshine on no other grass
A richer hue might wear.

And form'd from out that very

In which the dead did lie, The daisy, with its eye of gold, Look'd up into the sky.


The rook was wheeling over head,
Nor hasten'd to be gone;

The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perch'd on a grey head-stone.

And God, I said, would never give
This light upon the earth,
Nor bid in Childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,

If our one wisdom were to mourn,
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm and early bed.

Oh no! the glory earth puts on,
The child's uncheck'd delight,
Both witness to a triumph won-
(If we but judged aright)—

A triumph won o'er Sin and Death-
From these the Saviour saves;

And, like a happy infant, Faith

Can play among the graves!



THE crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;
The courteous host, and all approving guest,
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep,
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep;
And man, o'er laboured with his being's strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life.
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile,
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile;
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave,
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave;
What better name may slumber's bed become?
Night's sepulchre, the universal home,

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;

Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increas'd,

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.



I do love violets.

They tell a history of woman's love;

They open with the earliest breath of spring;
Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew and light,
And if they perish, perish with a sigh
Delicious as that life. On the hot June
They shed no perfume; the flowers may remain,
But the rich breathing of their leaves is past;
Like woman they have lost their loveliest gift
When yielding to the fiery hour of passion:
-The violet-breath of love is purity!



As effortless as woodland nooks
Send violets up and paint them blue.



The west still burn'd

With the "good evening " which the sun had given ;
And where the earth and sky appear'd to meet,
'Twas purpled o'er with clouds of filmy texture;
Aerial things that might not keep conceal'd
A tricksome fairy, had she sought such shelter:
O! what a vision for entranced bard!



And if even words are sweet, what, what is song,
When lips we love the melody prolong?
How thrills the soul and vibrates to that lay,
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away!
How to the cadence of the simplest words
That ever hung upon the wild harp's chords
The breathless heart lies listening; as it felt
All life within it on that music dwelt,
And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power
By its own will, for that enchanted hour.



Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge;
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! the eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages, while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.



When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren throng'd around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound;

Less than a God, they thought, there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That sung so sweetly and so well.


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