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Each individual suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colours cannot paint,
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry!
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse!
We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are,

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh

COWPER.

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!-
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fann'd by some angel's purple wing;
Where is, O Grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious Death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,
Where light and shade alternate dwell;
How bright the unchanging morn appears!
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell!

Its duty done,-as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While heaven and earth combine to say,
"Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!"

BARBAULD.

A DIRGE.

"EARTH to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid,
In one silent bed are laid;
Here the vassal and the king
Side by side lie withering;
Here the sword and sceptre rust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Age on age shall roll along,
O'er this pale and mighty throng:
Those that wept them, those that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep.
Brothers, sisters of the worm,
Summer's sun, or winter's storm,
Song of peace, or battle's roar,

Ne'er shall break their slumbers more,
Death shall keep his solemn trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

But a day is coming fast,

Earth, thy mightiest and thy last!
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil,
It shall come in empire's groans,
Burning temples, trampled thrones;
Then, ambition, rue thy lust!
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the King shall shine;
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousand thousands round his state;
Spirits with the crown and plume,
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!

Heaven shall open on our sight,
Earth be turn'd to living light,
Kingdoms of the ransom'd just-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
Shine thy mount, Jerusalem
Then shall in the desert rise,
Fruits of more than Paradise;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God;
Till are dried the martyrs' tears
Through a glorious thousand years.
Now in hope of Him we trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

CROLY.

THE SABBATH.

DEAR the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day!
And by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me, the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord,-
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud amen
Which echoes through the blest abode,
Which swells, and sinks, and swells again,

Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the simple melody,
Sung with the pomp of rustic art,
That holy, heavenly harmony,
The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall;

But, on the sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all;

Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then, dear to me, the Sabbath morn,
The village-beils, the shepherd's voice,
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
These always bid my heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Ours is the prophet's car of fire,
Which bears us to a Father's arms!

CUNNINGHAM.

THE MISSIONARY.

My heart goes with thee, dauntless man,
Freely as thou dost hie,

To sojourn with some barbarous clan,
For them to toil, or die.

Fondly our spirits to our own

Cling, nor to part allow;

Thine to some land forlorn has flown,-
We turn, and where art thou?

Thou climb'st the vessel's lofty side,
Numbers are gathering there;
The youthful warrior in his pride,
The merchant in his care;

Hearts which for knowledge track the seas,
Spirits which lightly rove

Glad as the billows and the breeze

And thou-the child of love.

A savage shore receives thy tread;
Companion thou hast none;

The wild boughs wave above thy head,
Yet still thou journeyest on;
Threading the tangled wild-wood drear,
Piercing the mountain glen,
Till wearily thou drawest near
The haunts of lonely men.

Strange is thy aspect to their eyes;
Strange is thy foreign speech;
And wild and strong is their surprise
At marvels thou dost teach.

Thy strength alone is in thy words;
Yet armies could not bow

The spirit of those barbarous hordes
So readily as thou.

But oh! thy heart, thou home-sick man,
With saddest thoughts runs o'er,
Sitting, as fades the evening wan,
Silently at thy door.

Yet that poor hut upon the wild,

A stone beneath the tree,

And souls to heaven's love reconciled

These are enough for thee!

HOWITT.

THE BARREL ORGAN.

THE father sat and watch'd his boy,
With all a father's woe;

Fled was the rosy light of joy,

And faded his young brow;

Dark shades were gathering o'er its grace,

And death was stamp'd on that sweet face.

And yet he linger'd still-at fits,
A brief reviving beam,

In melancholy beauty, flits

Across his cheek;-that gleam Deceives the father's throbbing heart,

To think perchance they may not part.

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