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While the thought that thou never again should'st roam, Would repay us, for all our mourning.

And so sweetly fell the words of Hope,

Ob! soft as the dews of heaven,

That we deemed 'twas the voice of an Angel spoke,

And our sorrows afar were driven t

And we thought as thou sailed'st o'er the ' dark blue

Wealth and happiness beamed before thee.—
Alas! thou sleep'st in a foreign grave,
With the rank grass waving o'er thee!

And never did foreign grave inclose

A Briton more gentle hearted!

For never did heart better feelings disclose,

Than his, who has now departed.

i . . : '' . 1

Not a friend attended thy dying bed;

Surrounded by war and danger,

Oh! who would pillow thy feverish head

But the cold, and the careless stranger?

Ah I often that scene doth Fancy trace,
Where the friend of my youth lay dying,
And often I think on the distant place,
Where that friend is lowly lying.

Peace, peace to thy spirit! the words of hope
Shall not always thus deceive us;
We yet shall meet on a holier spot,
Where no sorrow nor care can grieve us.

Now farewell, my friend I thou first, thou best!

Whilst a ray of mind is left me,

Though distant the place of thy long last rest,

I shall not, I cannot forget thee!

i Anon.


It is the funeral march. I did not think

That there had been such magic in sweet sounds!

Hark! from the blackened cymbal that dead tone—

It awes the very rabble multitude,

They follow silently, their earnest brows

Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp ,'

And pageantry of death that with such force

Arrests the sense,*—the mute apd mourning train,

The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,

Had passed unheeded, or perchance awoke

A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek

At Pride's last triumph. Now these measured sounds,

This universal language, to the heart

Speak instant, and on all .these various minds
Compel one feeling.

But such better thoughts
Will pass away, how soon! and these who here
Are following their dead comrade to the grave,
Ere the night fall, will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights at home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father, he is gone,
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. S'he hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son .. ,

Her tears of bitterness are shed; when first
He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.

We are indeed
Clay in the potter's hand! one favoured mind,
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man
Framed with like miracle the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labour, like this Soldier here,
His wonderous faculties bestowed in vain,

Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.

And there are
Who say that this is well! as God has made
All tilings for man's good pleasure, so of men
The many for the few! court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters, that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and though now
Toiling and troubled, though they pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things here
And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord,
Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their brethren's blood,—blind at noon day
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness!

O my God 1
I thank thee that I am not such as these;
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart
That feels, the voice that in these evil days,
Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself
And cries aloud against iniquity.

Southey. NIGHT.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose; Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed I

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far, Than waking dreams by day light are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil,

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

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