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Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,

But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!


WERE death a rare and uncommon object, were it only once in the course of a man's life that he beheld one of his fellow-creatures carried to the grave, a solemn awe would fill him; he would stop short in the midst of his pleasures; he would even be chilled with secret horror. Such impressions, however, would prove unsuitable to the nature of our present state. When they became so strong as to render men unfit for the ordinary business of life, they would in a great measure defeat the intention of our being placed in this world. It is better ordered by the wisdom of Providence, that they should be weakened by the frequency of their recurrence; and so tempered by the mixture of other passions, as to allow us to go on freely in acting our parts on earth.

Yet, familiar as death is now become, it ought not to pass over as one of those common incidents which are beheld without concern, and awaken no reflection. There are many things which the funerals of our fellow-creatures are calculated to teach; and happy it were for the gay and dissipated

if they would listen more frequently to the instruction of so awful a moment.

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When we observe the funerals that pass along the streets, or when we walk among the monuments of death, the first thing that naturally strikes us is the undistinguishing blow with which that common enemy levels all. We behold a great promiscuous multitude all carried to the same abode; all lodged in the same dark and silent mansions. There mingle persons of every age and character, of every rank and condition in life: the young and the old, the poor and the rich, the gay and the grave, the renowned and the ignoble. A few weeks ago, most of those whom we have seen carried to the grave, walked about as we do now on the earth; enjoyed their friends, beheld the light of the sun, and were forming designs for future days. Perhaps it is not long since they were engaged in scenes of high festivity. For them, perhaps, the cheerful company assembled ; and in the midst of the circle they shone with gay and pleasing vivacity. But now-to them, all is finally closed. To them no more shall the seasons return, or the sun rise; no more shall they hear the voice of mirth, or behold the face of man. They are swept from the universe as though they had never been. They are carried away as with a flood: the wind has passed over them, and they are gone.'

While the funeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, who are discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the ordinary affairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house of mourning, and represent to themselves what is going on there. There we should see a disconsolate family, sitting in silent grief, thinking

of the sad breach that is made in their little society; and with tears in their eyes looking to the chamber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that presents itself of their departed friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be gradually softened, and melted down into humanity.



O BEAUTIFUL the streams
That through our valleys run,
Singing and dancing in the gleams
Of summer's cloudless sun.
The sweetest of them all

From its fairy banks is gone;
And the music of the waterfall
Hath left the silent stone!

Up among the mountains
In soft and mossy cell,
By the silent springs and fountains
The happy wild-flowers dwell.
The queen-rose of the wilderness
Hath wither'd in the wind,
And the shepherds see no loveliness
In the blossoms left behind.

Birds cheer our lonely groves

With many a beauteous wing;
When happy in their harmless loves
How tenderly they sing!
O'er all the rest was heard

One wild and mournful strain,
But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird,
She ne'er must sing again!

Bright through the yew-tree's gloom
I saw a sleeping dove!
On the silence of her silvery plume,
The sunlight lay in love:
The grove seem'd all her own

Round the beauty of that breast,
But the startled dove afar is flown!
Forsaken is her nest!

In yonder forest wide

A flock of wild deer lies,
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side,
And shades their peaceful eyes!

The hunter in the night

Hath singled out the doe,

In whose light the mountain flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow!

A thousand stars shine forth

With pure and dewy ray,

Till by night the mountains of our north
Seem gladdening in the day.

O, empty all the heaven!

Though a thousand lights be there,— For clouds o'er the evening star are driven, And shorn her golden hair!

What! though the stream be dead,-
Its banks all still and dry!
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed
In the air-groves of the sky.
What! though our prayers from death
The queen-rose might not save!
With brighter bloom and balmier breath
She springeth from the grave.

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