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From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
<Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode.'"
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left his veins, Time,' he replied,
'I've lost it! Ah! the treasure!' and he died,
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years;
They answered, Time is but a meteor glare,'
And bade me for eternity prepare.
I asked the seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;
And they replied, (no oracle more wise,)
Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize.'
I asked a spirit lost-but, Oh! the shriek
That pierced my soul-I shudder while I speak!
It cried, A particle-a specka mite
Of endless years-duration infinite!':
Of things inanimate,—my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply,
'Time is the season fair of living well,
The path of glory, or the road to hell.'
I asked my Bible, and methought it said,
Time is the present hour, the past is fled,-
Live, live to-day! to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set,'
I asked old Father Time, himself, at last,
But, in a moment, he flew swiftly past,
His chariot was a cloud-the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel-who shall stand
One foot on sea, and one on solid land,—
'By Heaven,' he cried, I swear the mystery's o'er,
Time was,' he cried, but Time shall be no more.'
Rev. Joshua Marsden,
ON RECEIVING INTELLIGENCE OF
A YOUNG FRIEND'S DEATH IN INDIA.
Little grief disturbed our breasts that hour,
When from thee, my friend! we parted;
For Hope stood by, heart-soothing power!
And wiped off the tears that started.
Yes! she bade us check the bursting tears,
And drive away thoughts of sorrow,
And pointed out, 'mid the circle of years,
Some distant, yet joyful morrow.
Some joyful morrow, when safe to home,
We should hail thee again returning,
While the thought that thou never again should'st roam, Would repay us, for all our mourning.
And so sweetly fell the words of Hope,
Oh! soft as the dews of heaven,
That we deemed 'twas the voice of an Angel spoke,
And our sorrows afar were driven !
And we thought as thou sailed'st o'er the dark blue wave,'
Wealth and happiness beamed before thee.-
Alas! thou sleep'st in a foreign grave,
With the rank grass waving o'er thee!
And never did foreign grave inclose
A Briton more gentle hearted!
For never did heart better feelings disclose,
Than his, who has now departed.
Not a friend attended thy dying bed;
Surrounded by war and danger,
Oh! who would pillow thy feverish head
But the cold, and the careless stranger?
Ah! often that scene doth Fancy trace,
Where the friend of my youth lay dying,
And often I think on the distant place,
Where that friend is lowly lying.
Peace, peace to thy spirit! the words of hope
Shall not always thus deceive us ;
We yet shall meet on a holier spot,
Where no sorrow nor care can grieve us.
Now farewell, my friend! thou first, thou best!
Whilst a ray of mind is left me,
Though distant the place of thy long last rest,
I shall not, I cannot forget thee!
It is the funeral march. I did not think
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds!
Hark! from the blackened cymbal that dead tone-
It awes the very
They follow silently, their earnest brows
Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense, the mute and mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,
Had passed unheeded, or perchance awoke
A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At Pride's last triumph. Now these measured sounds,
This universal language, to the heart
Speak instant, and on all these various minds
Compel one feeling.
But such better thoughts Will pass away, how soon! and these who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights at home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father, he is gone,
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen.
She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed; when first
He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.
We are indeed
Clay in the potter's hand! one favoured mind,
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man
Framed with like miracle the work of God,
as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labour, like this Soldier here,
His wonderous faculties bestowed in vain,