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'The soul that longs to see my grace,

Is sure my love to gain;
And those that early seek my face,

Shall never seek in vain.'

What object, Lord, my soul should move,

It' once compared with thee?
What beauty should command my love,

Like what in Christ I see?

Away, ye false delusive toys,

Vain tempters of the mind! Tis here I fix my lasting choice,

For here true bliss I find!



He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
( Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)

And marked the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fixed, yet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,

And,—but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,

And but for that chill changeless brow,

Where cold obstructions, apathy,

Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes,—but for these, and these alone,

Some moments—ay—one treacherous hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

So fair,—so calm,—so softly sealed,

The first—last look—by death revealed!

Such is the aspect of this shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Her's is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath!

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb;

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.



Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise, but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home:


He lost in errors bis vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.



Bells toll for peasants, and we heed them not:
But when the great, the good, the mighty die,
Roused by the grandeur of their lofty lot
We pause to listen, and reflecting sigh.

We cannot grieve alike for youth and age.
For thee, fair Scion of the royal tree,
We wept in anguish; time could scarce assuage.
We wept—and oh! not only wept for thee,—

But thee, the age-worn monarch of these realms,
Thyself survivor of each dearest tie;
We mourn not with the sorrow that o'erwhelms,
But with the silent tear of memory.

Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night,
But ran its course, and slowly verging set;
Preparing shades had long involved its light,
And stole the poignant anguish of regret .

To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved,
fne darkened mind in mercy first was given;
That thou mightst never mourn the fondly loved,
Nor know them lost on earth, til met in heaven!

01 what a rapturous change, from dark to light,
From double darkness, of the soul and eye
For thee—whose days were quenched in deepest wight!
To thee—'twas death to live—'tis life to die.

Those darkened eyes—a© more obstruct the day,
That mind no more spurns reason's blest control,
Far from her wretched tenement of day,
All eye—all reason—soars the happy soul.

As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,
And high communion with thy spirit bold?
Still sweetly whispering, Jim our kindred hand,
Come where the gates of heaven for thee unfold.

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