Beyond all pleasances more gross and real
Which the corporeal sense may feel or see;
Oh, bright and blessed time! when I shall be all
(Even as thyself) unfettered and ideal!

Might this weak lay thy griefs or virtues tell-
Or could I bid it breathe the poignant woe
I feel at losing one I loved so well-

Then might the strains interminably flow,

And each kind listener then should surely know How much I weep thy loss, and prized thy worth! Ah! though unhappy was thy lot below

Thy frequent aim while dwelling upon earth,
Was to spread perfect joy, and kindle guileless mirth:

To soothe all others woes, yet hide thy own
To counsel wisely, and to kindly cheer-
Support the sinking-and console the lone,
And to the wretched lend a willing ear;-
Too strong in conscious right to stoop to fear,.
Thine was the bold, because the honest heart,

Which would not shrink when danger became near; Though foes might wrong, and keen misfortunes thwart,

Unchanged thou wouldst perform the firm and noble

part.

But I am warned to quit this pensive theme,
To which my mind tenaciously would cling;
They bid me shun despair's corroding dream,

And shield my heart from torture's venomed sting. Vain were the effort!—is there aught can bring Sufficing comfort to the mind that pines

For the beloved dead, and cannot fling

Aside the grief that round it still entwines,
Nor ceases to afflict-till life itself declines?

Yet 'tis a recollection fit to still

And soothe the fevered spirits, that no more Shalt thou endure of life's precarious ill;

No longer shall thy cup be flowing o'er

With draughts that poison the heart's inmost

core ;

No more the dupe of hope-the prey of care

Thou sleepest by that dark and silent shore

To which the weary and the sad repair,

And lie in sweet repose and lasting slumber there!

The Rose E gave lies torn and dead.

THE rose I gave lies torn and dead,
Too rudely from thee cast;
Upon it idle feet may tread,
Its little day is past.

But if I take it up from thence,
I find it still exhale

A fragrance grateful to the sense,
And still 'tis fair though frail.

Thus though the dream of love is o'er-
Vanished its joys and pains ;—
And though my heart may hope no more,
Love's memory remains.

And still 'tis sweet at intervals,

Snatched from life's busy scene,

To list to lost affection's calls,

And think on what has been!

Oh, not so early to the Tomb !

Oн, not so early to the tomb,
May youth and virtue go!

Though wert thou called for in thy bloom

To quit thy earthly woe

It were but merciful to thee,
For thou hast long known misery,

And deeper pangs may'st know,-
If doom'd in sickness and in sorrow,
Sadly to look upon each morrow.

Yet do not deem thy end so near,
Since lives depend on thine;
And they who ponder o'er such fear,
Their own doom oft assign.
Self-doomed-self-tortured-self-accurst,

The suicidal thought is nurst-
They languish, droop, and pine;
Till comes the fate that they foreknew,
And their dark prophecy proves true.

Then harbour not such thoughts as these,

But turn thy thoughts to things More opposite to thy disease

Than dark imaginings.

Recal once more each early joy-
Let happy visions still employ
Thy fancy when it springs
Over the cloud of present fears,
Into the light of coming years.

Think of thy daughter! sent to be
A blessing and a stay;

A bliss, a hope, a light to thee

When all else fades away :

And think if she should lose thee now,
How soon her infant heart would bow

To bitter pangs a prey—

How early she would wither 'neath
Sorrow more dreadful far than death.

And oh! forget not him whose hope,
Whose all on thee must rest;
How with his long cares will he cope,

If by thy loss opprest?

Shall he be forced to linger on

When all he loves and trusts is gone?

Unhelped, unsoothed, unblest ?