III.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

IV.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd 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.

V.

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 trumpet unblown.

VI.

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!

FROM JOB.

I.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveil❜d—
Deep sleep came down on ev'ry eye save mine
And there it stood,-all formless-but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:

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"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"

ON THE DEATH

OF

SIR PETER PARKER, BART.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;

But nations swell the funeral cry,

And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:

In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!

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