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What joys ecstatic must thou there inherit,
Buoyant and free, from age to age aspiring,
Oh bliss unmingled beyond bounds or measure!
Oh brilliant destiny, who would recall
Or wrench thy sainted spirit from such treasure,
Replacing it beneath the iron thrall
Of this vile, sin-polluted world. With pleasure
Adieu, my first, last, best; the distance small
Betwixt us, and the fondled wish be mine
To meet in that elysium divine.
TO A SNOWDEOP.
<3L GAIN the opening year I sing, £& Hail, lovely harbinger of Spring! Emerging from thy tomb again, Precursor of the floral train, Thou seem'st impatient of delay, Come, welcome stranger, come away. Thy spotless robes of snowy white, How doubly grateful to the sight! What intellect, what art, and power Are miniatured in thee, sweet flower, To all proclaiming, as they shine, An Artist glorious and divine 1 Unlike the rude attempts of man, The closer we thy structure scan, The more thy symmetry and grace, And native loveliness, we trace, And feel the soul instinctive rise With admiration and surprise At thy revival from the dust, O hallowed emblem of the just! In robes unborrowed though attired, And by no toil of thine acquired. Yet, ah! fair gem, thy charms deride The garish glare of human pride: And how obscure thou lov'st to bloom, With drooping head, here o'er thy tomb! Young, unassuming modest birth,
Bright image of retiring worth,
All truly may behold in thee
A model of humility.
But, ah! frail evanescent thing,
Thy mortal hour is on the wing;
Soon shalt thou languish and decay,
And all thy sweetness pass away;
The very spot where thou hast blown,
Shall be forgotten and unknown;
Thy room shall others soon supply,
Like thee to flourish, fade, and die.
Alas! sad prototype of fate
Of man, e'en in his best estate—
How brief, how fleeting his career!
What are we? Wandering exiles here.
A few more petty ills endured,
A few more tears of sorrow poured,
Then vain to tarry here our trust;
Forth flies the fiat, " dust to dust;"
Whate'er in life has been our lot—
All then is gone, and all forgot;
But though thou here a wreck must fall,
Yet in the grave how short thy thrall!
Spring shall again to thee return,
But when shall Spring dawn on the urn?
There must its tenants slumbering lie
Till Time, and Death, and nature die—
Till the last trumpet, loud and shrill,
Shall rouse us with its awful thrill.
A FEW SHORT YEARS.
(St FEW sEort years, and then, (gs^ As dew-drops from the spray, • So from the ranks of men, Anon, we pass away.
Bright type of our career,
How brief our flutter here,
What matters here our lot—
To-morrow, gone, forgot,
j Though thorns our path bestrew,
What honour, fame, and power
The syrens of an hour,
That dream like pass away,
Thus shadows of a shade,
Save glorious truth and love,'
The amaranths above
But ever fresh diffuse
Sweet fragrance, and display
Where beams eternal day.
HOME EECOLLECTIONS OF A
"Oh ever thus, since childhood's hour,
VI never nursed a young gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye;
(31 LONE! thrice welcome now, devout Reflection, £§* My weary soul with gladness bids thee, hail; Her nurse benign, and succour in dejection,
When hopes but mock, and fairest prospects fail; B