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And when I'm in the green earth's breast,
Let Henry go to sea,
And of a spirit free.
Charge over him shall take;
To Henry, for my sake.
And oh! dear mother, when you cry,
(For grieve I know you will,)
Who sees and pities still;
You taught us long ago,
Which none will heed below."
Wild storms had met that vessel's track,
And broke the sea in foam;
Had sailed in safety home.
Upon that boisterous tide,
The little sailor died!
Long, long, beside the cottage hearth
They missed him from his place;
His happy, eager face!
No game of bat and ball;
The spirit of them all.
But round his grave each Sabbath-day,
Silently, hand in hand,
His once-loved playmates stand.
Oh, little children of a race
So part on earth, that, face to face,
Hon. Mrs. Norton.
Fallen is thy throne, O Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains! Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
On Etham's barren shore 1
Now lights thy path no more!
Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem;
Once she was all thine own— Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne;
Thy long-loved olive-tree,
For other gods than thee.
Then sank the star of Solyma,
Then passed her glory's day, Like heath that in the wilderness
The light wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod; And sunk those guilty towers,
Where Baal reigned as God.
"Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors,
And raze to earth her battlements,
Tell Zion's mournful daughter
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
But soon shall other pictured scenes
In brighter vision rise,
On all her mourners' eyes;
The messengers of peace;— "Salvation by the Lord's right hand!"
They shout and never cease.
Eighteen hundred years agone
When He trod the Holy Land
If to-day thou turn'st aside
A. C. Linoh.
GEMS FROM SHAK3PEARE.
These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
II.—DUTY OF FORGIVENESS.
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once,
III.—THE MIND ALONE VALUABLE.
'Tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What! is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful 1
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye 1
O, no, good Kate: neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
IV.—DESPISED OLD AGE.
I Have lived long enough : my way of life
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.
V.—DISEASES OF THE MIND.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;