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Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When first I heard their soothing chime.
These joyous hours are passed away,
And many a friend that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
Whilst other bards shall wake these dells,
And sing thy praise, sweet evening bells!
With fruitless labour Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound,
The priest, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers,
Ever,' he said, That close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear;
For that she ever sung,
In the lost battle borne down by the flying,
'Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying.'
So the notes rung—
Avoid thee, fiend, with cruel hand,
Why shake the dying sinner's sand?
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
Oh think of faith and love.
By many a deathbed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.-'
The war that for a space did fail
Now trebly thundered on the gale,
And Stanley' was the cry.
A light o'er Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted Victory.'
'Charge, Chester, charge!-On, Stanley, on !'Were the last words of Marmion.
Soon shall I lay my head,
Where weary pilgrims sleep;
And slumber in that silent bed,
Where woe forgets to weep!
From hearts with anguish torn,
There, pain shall flee away;
For death is but the cloudy morn
Of an effulgent day.
When slumbering in the tomb
In dreamless sweet repose,
The wild flowers o'er my grave that bloom
Shall vernal sweets disclose.
The sun's first morning beam
Upon my sod shall rest;
And ere he set, his latest gleam
Will linger o'er my breast.
Perchance at close of eve,
Some friend may linger here,
And shed upon my peaceful grave
One bright unbidden tear.
My soul shall soon be free,
And, loosed from mortal chains,
Shall launch on that unbounded sea
Where peace for ever reigns.
There is a glorious rest,'
For weeping mortals given;
And when they sink on earth's cold breast,
They find that rest in heaven.
On the Death of John Earl of Hopetoun, &c. &c. at Paris, 27th August 1823.
From Jonah's grief, and anger for his gourd,
From David's Perezuzza, save us Lord!
For thou dost try us, but we humbled bow
Before thy throne; nor say, what doest thou?
All-ruling Sovereign! ever wise and good
Are all thy ways, though darkly understood;
And oft at seeming variance with the grace
That favours man, and the rich promises
On which we hope.-How dark was that decree,
Which summoned Hopetoun hence; though 'twas to thee!
Ah, in his death, how many sanguine schemes,
That hope had cherished die! How many streams
Of bliss are dried! How many tears and sighs
Reveal of many hearts the agonies!
The highest ranks, the Chiefest of the chief, Share largely in our sympathy and grief.
Regard Him in his cordial adieu *,
Regard Him in his retrospective view,
When of the Scottish shores, on Hopetoun's strand,
He took his leave, and pressed its Chieftain's hand.---
Whom did the King delight to honour more?
Whose death more bitterly can he deplore?
Of Scotia's dignities the brightest gem
He saw, admired, and recognised in them
The matchless pair, the matchless progeny :
He never saw, nor hopes their like to see.
Referring to his Majesty's leaving Scotland.