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All troubles o'er, all perils passed away. .
Dead !—no, 'tis but a sweet refreshing sleep,
Since in the tomb its mighty Spoiler lay,
Who conquering rose; and will He leave his

own
Blood-ransomed trophies, jewels of his crown?

Ah no! that Prince, omnipotent to save,
Their manumission by his own secured;
Though Death may still his sable standard wave,
Soon o'er the rayless empire of the grave
A glorious, vivifying morn shall rise:
Forth shall they come, as gold which has en-

dured
The crucible, to wing yon azure skies,
In bowers of immortality to dwell;
Hence all with her for ever now is well.

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN ONE.

PENEATH this sod a baneful viper lies,
© By earth abhorred, an outcast from the skies;
Through life he wronged, defrauded, and oppressed,
A Pharisaic, ravening wolf at best.

He wore religion as a priest his gown;
And Falsehood, blushing, claimed him for her own.
Gold was his god, and gain his soul's delight;
For this he toiled, that bunted day and night.

Deaf to the plaints of pity and of woe,
His frozen heart was never taught to glow;
But every claim of wretchedness withstood,
Nor felt the luxury of doing good.

Let midnight's pall for ever shroud his name,
His memory rotten with it share the same;
And let his natal and his mortal day,
Accursed, blasted, from the earth decay !

LENNEL CHURCHYARD.

FLY, ye profane; else rev’rently draw near

With awe this hallowed, melancholy spot, Scene of dull solitude and holy fear,

Inspiring dread and venerable thought.

Deep sighs the wind_hark ! its prophetic sound,

As moaning sweeps it through the distant trees, And how the lonely owlet's plaint profound

Accords distinctly with the fitful breeze.

Around, the soothing symphony to swell,

Commingle soft the murmurs of the Tweed, Sweeping each fairy bank and classic dell,

Time symbolizing in her winged speed.

Impetuous Time, who can arrest thee? None.

Wafting adown thy tide, at every turn, Our fondest hopes, and leaving thus alone

The widowed heart in sorrow but to mourn.

Here many sleep embalmed in memory dear,

O’er whom with me ecstatic fled the hours, But o'er whose blasted friendship drops the tear;

Can I forget-O never Lyonder bowers ?

Precarious, short-lived, sublunary joy,

Bright vision of to-day, to-morrow gone, Fruit which to Fancy never seems to cloy;

But realized, ah ! unalloyed by none.

Yea all, at best, how mutable and vain !

Proclaims the silent eloquence of Death, Whose dreary province is earth’s wide domain,

Writhing convulsed beneath his septic breath.

Where now distinction, honour, homage ? where

Pride, avarice, ambition, and our hate ? And where contention affluence to share,

'Mongst all these melancholy heaps of fate ?

Soon shall I be what I, alas ! deplore

My name, my years, be read by passers-by; O'er the frail stone, which tells I am no more,

Some friend may drop a tear, or heave a sigh. MY NATIVE BORDER HOME.

FOR yon heights where waves the pine, V Again there let me roam: What charms on earth can rival thine,

My native border home ?

Who would not gladly bid adieu

Betimes to toil and care-
To hail the pleasures ever new

That richly blossom there?

How sweet through blue-bells there to wade,

And see the primrose springTo hear beneath the vernal shade

The mellow warblers sing !

And give me there alone to stray,

In rapture to behold
The lovely landscape, fresh and gay,

Its magic scenes unfold.

There wafts the Tweed her pearly tide,

How soft her murmuring flow, Bathing her osier emerald side,

Where fragrant hawthorns blow

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