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Yet the angels blast shall the mighty ones, with strength
again inspire, And to the eloquent be given—' tongues cloven as of fire.'
But oh where are the dearest ones, we cherished above all? No voice comes from the narrow bed, no sound from the
dreary pall; 'Tis silence, for no sound may pass from yonder lifeless clay, Save the echoes of the hollow tombs, that answer where
There's a language in your silence, it breaks on the mental ear,
And the quivering lip of sorrow makes its accents to appear,
'Ashes to ashes,' Think ye it may speak of further trust?
It cannot pierce the enamel's gloom, and there 'tis ' dust to dust.'
I looked around me yet again—the sun had sunk in night,
The moon poured down her cataract of pale and flooding light;
Like the bright sun's fall are the living ones that sink beneath the earth,
But like the glorious moon will rise in heaven a second birth.
And When the watchers of the night, the stars shall cease
to burn, And the sun shall pass to darkness, and the moon to blood
shall turn, A glorious host of spirits, o'er the shrivelled sky shall sweep Mild as the spirit's light that passed in chaos o'er the deep.
Blest be the bark that o'er the ocean glides;
Land, where the bones of our fathers are sleeping!
Dark is our path o'er the dark-rolling ocean;
Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.
'Tis thou that soothest the deathbed of the saint,
VOL. III. F
To watch with anxious looks that last dread scene;
E. K. H.
ON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
Another year's fast hastening to a close,
Till death, unmindful of his sinful state,
w. a R.
Life's but a dream of ill-spent hours,
Life's but a dream of waking care,
w. a R.
EXTRACT FROM CHRISTABEL.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim,