"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," The solemn priest hath said, So we lay the turf above thee now, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And when the Lord shall summon us, May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, MILMAN. HOPE. EFLECTED on the lake, I love Thus heavenly hope is all serene, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, TOWNSHEND. THE SAILOR'S HOPE. (OOR child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But hope can here her moonlight vigils keep CAMPBELL. THE DYING POET'S HOPE. It is well known that the messenger who brought the intelligence that the laureate crown had been decreed to Tasso, found him dying in a convent. OLD on Torquato's silence fell The shadow of the tomb, When sounds of triumph reached his cell, Amid the cloister's gloom : "Awake! the crown awaits thee now; Ccme, bind the laurel to thy brow. Haste where the peerless capitol Two thousand years hath shone; And they had but one name of old— "Vain voice! thou comest," said the bard, “When hope itself is o'er; But now my spirit's depths are stirred By dreams of earth no more. For who would deem the mirage true, Yet I have loved the praise of men How prized had been thy hidings then! Why came it not when o'er my life Long in mine eyes the golden sand The dimness of my soul hath past— A land where blight hath never been, But keep the heart, too, ever green Unlike the proudest palms of earth, Yet still it lives-my first, last dream— Woe for the blight that early came— Woe for the hope whose joys departs- But to the power of hope and faith And all that love hath lost on earth, FRANCES BROWN. GOOD WEEP NOT FOR ME. HEN the spark of life is waning, When the languid eye is straining, When the feeble pulse is ceasing, When the pangs of death assail me, Christ is mine-he cannot fail me, Weep not for me. Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour From his love my soul to sever, Jesus is my strength for ever Weep not for me. DALE. THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE. ET Vanity adorn the marble tomb With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown. Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Fast by a brook, a fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. MY GRAVE. AR from the city's ceaseless hum, Fast by the streamlet's oozing wave, Debarring visitant so gay. And when the robin's fitful song Is hushed the darkling boughs among, BEATTIE. |