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Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

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The most belov'd on earth, Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet ’twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov’d is laid.

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Then since this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat! Why fly from ill, With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.

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Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I pay my court to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow and say, My God, thy will be done!

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1 How sweet to the heart is the thought of Tomorrow, When Hope's pleasing pictures bright colours display ! How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day !

2 When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish For health, and the comforts it bears on its wing, Let me hope (oh how soon it would lessen my anguish) That To-morrow will ease and serenity bring. - 3 When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended, Sweet the hope that To-morrow my wand'rings will cease; That at home, then, with care sympathetic attended, I shall rest unmolested and slumber in peace.

4. Or when from the friends of my heart long divided, The fond expectation with joy how replete! That from far distant regions, by Providence guided, To-morrow will sce us most happily meet. 5 When six days of labour each other succeeding, With hurry and toil have my spirits oppress'd, What pleasure to think, as the last is receding, To-morrow will be a sweet Sabbath of rest.

6 And when the vain shadows of time are retiring, When life is fast-fleeting, and death is in sight, The Christian believing, exulting, aspiring, Beholds a To-morrow of endless delight :

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But the Infidel then –he sees no To-morrow Yet he knows that his moments are hastening away : Poor wretch can he feel without heart-rending sorrow, That his joys and his life will expire with to-day !

WI.

THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE.

--I THE sun was departed, the mild zephyr blowing Bore over the plain the perfume of the flowers ;

In soft undulations the streamlet was flowing,
And calm meditation led forward the hours :
I struck the full chord, and the ready tear
started, -
I sung of an exile, forlorn, broken hearted,
Like him, from my bosom all joy is departed,
And sorrow has stol’n from the lyre all its
pow'rs.

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I paus’d on the strain, when fond mem'ry, tenacious, Presented the form I must ever esteem : Retrac'd scenes of pleasure, alas, how fallacious! Evanescent all, all, as the shades of a dream. Yet still, as they rush'd thro' oppress'd recollection, The silent tear fell, and the pensive reflection Immers'd my sad bosom in deeper dejection, On which cheering Hope scarcely glances a beam. 3 In vain into beauty all Nature is springing, In vain smiling Spring does the blossoms unfold; In vain round my cot the wing’d choristers singing, When each soft affection is dormant and cold. E’en sad as the merchant, bereav'd of his treasure, So slow beats my heart, and so languid its measure, So dreary, so lonely, a stranger to pleasure, Around it Affliction her mantle hath roll’d. 4. But meek Resignation supporting the spirit, Unveils a bright scene to the uplifted eye;

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