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"Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as lie passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride.
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.


And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;


And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Syr on.


Fond, fluttering insect, cease to urge thy fate,
Thy silkTM wing presenting to the flame;

Quick, let me save thee ere it be too late,
Ere the false day devour thy filmy frame.

There, take thy chance, poor heedless innocent,
I catch thee, life and freedom to restore;

Go, rove at large the unbounded element,
And live thy little life's short period o'er.

Ah! why, like thee, will man destruction brave,
With blind temerity provoke his doom,

Spurn the kind lifted hand that wants to save,
And madly hasten where he must consume!

Scorched he returns, the experienced ill defies,
Rushes on ruin, flutters, flames, and dies!



It is an easy task, for hearts at rest,
To talk of brighter days to the distressed;
To shew us joys the future may reveal,
And speak of that composure which they feel—
They may remind us, tears and sighs are vain—
Alas! can hopelessness diminish pain?
They say, when God afflicts us, it is fit
That men should suffer meekly, and submit;
Yes—we submit, and place our trust alone
In one last hope—to go where they are gone;
Gone—where the pure in heart again shall meet;
Ah, yes I our prospect would be incomplete
Did we not hope to share the perfect bliss
Of that bright world, with friends so dear in this;
And recognise those forms, in realms above,
Who claimed on earth our fondest—purest love—

Thomas Bayly.


When death shall chill this aged heart,

That time but closer links with thine, And sad tears unforbidden start,

Still let some silent thoughts be mine. Oh think how constant I have proved,

How dearly prized thou wert by me, How sorrow tried, and yet I loved,

And dared the storm, if blessed with thee.

Our love began in early years,

When hearts elate ne'er dream life's day, Though breaking light, may set in tears,

Or fleet with cruel speed away. Our kindred slumber side by side,

Where yonder bending blossoms wave, Grief rent each heart but thine, my bride,

And yielded quiet and the grave.

And soon the saddening hour will rise,
When death shall steel my glance from you,

And tears will fill those faithful eyes,
When with my friends I slumber too.

Then may thy trembling footsteps stray,
And plant the light leaf o'er my breast,

Where the bright sun may cast his ray,
And gild it ere he sinks to rest.

Richard Ryan.


They wept—those aged patriots wept,

The fame of vanished years;
And burning thoughts, which long had slept,

Now melted them to tears;
They well remembered Salem's state,
Ere Babel laid it desolate.

They saw the second temple rise,

But oh less fair and bright!
And e'en their age-enfrozen eyes

Dropped sorrow at the sight;
They thought of many a long passed scene
Of what they were, and what had been.

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