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Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned;
Their dream of thrones has fled;

The table, that his love has crowned,

They ne'er again shall gather round,
With Jesus at their head.

Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
The hope of sins forgiven;–

Then, when our friends the grave devours,

When all the world around us lowers,
We’ll look from earth to heaven.

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I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturbed it not,

But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily’s bloom
When the day was dark and chill:

It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,

And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily’s bell,
And watched it many a day:—

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,

Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,
And the flower had flown away.

I looked where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by, -

And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,

There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.

-->The Last Evening before Eternity.—HILLHouse.

By this, the sun his westering car drove low : Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud

Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold:
Along the horizon castled shapes were piled,
Turrets and towers, whose fronts, embattled, gleamed
With yellow light: smit by the slanting ray,
A ruddy beam the canopy reflected;
With deeper light the ruby blushed; and thick
Upon the seraphs’ wings the glowing spots
Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff,
With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung,
Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits
Cast off, upon the dewy air, huge flakes
Of golden lustre. Over all the hill,
The heavenly legions, the assembled world,
Evening her crimson tint forever drew.

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Round I gazed, Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn, Faded the glories of the dying day. Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud The solitary star of evening shone. While gazing wistful on that peerless light, H. to be seen no more, (as, oft In dreams, strange *g. will mix,) sad thoughts Passed o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, Farewell, Pale, beauteous planet, that display'st so soft, Amid yon glowing streak, thy transient beam, A long, a last farewell! Seasons have changed, Ages and empires rolled, like smoke, away; But thou, unaltered, beam’st as silver fair As on thy birthnight. Bright and watchful eyes, From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem With secret transport. Natal star of love, And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy, How much I owe thee, how I bless thy rays How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green, Signal of rest, and social converse sweet, Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered The peasant’s heart, and drawn his benison!

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“Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais meles y cherchez pas.”

THou com’st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,
“On Susquehannah’s side, fair Wyoming !”
Image of many a dream, in hours long past,
When life was in its bud and blossoming,
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,
I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies,
The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

I then but dreamed : thou art before me now, In life, a vision of the brain no more. I’ve stood upon the wooded mountain's brow, That beetles high thy lovely valley o’er; And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore, Within a bower of sycamores am laid; And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar:
And there are tales of sad reality,
In the dark legends of thy border war,
With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are.

But where are they, the beings of the mind, The bard's creations, moulded not of clay, Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned— Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave—where are they? We need not ask. The people of to-day Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, And hospitable too—for ready pay,+ With manners, like their roads, a little rough, And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho’ tough. Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, And the town records, is the Albert now Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state, Her Doric column; and upon his brow The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow, Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow, That stands full-uniformed upon the plain, To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.

For he would look particularly droll
In his “Iberian boot” and “Spanish plume,”
And be the wonder of each Christian soul,
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom.
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom,
Hath many a model here, for woman's eye,
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home,
Hath a heart-spell too o and too high
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper—Poesy.

There’s one in the next field—of sweet sixteen—
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born
In heaven—with her jacket of light green,
“Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,”
Without a shoe or stocking-hoeing corn.
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there,
With Shakspeare’s volume in her bosom borne,
I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player
The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Woltaire.

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped Upon their day of massacre. She told Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, ..Whereon her father and five brothers slept Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, When all the land a funeral mourning kept. And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave, By Nature’s hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.

And on the margin of yon orchard hill
Are marks where time-worn battlements have been;
And in the tall grass traces linger still
Of “arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin.”
Five hundred of her brave that Valley green

*

Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay;

But twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene—

And where are now the twenty 2 Passed away. Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day?

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Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

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“The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break..of day, and then he awoke and sang.”— The Pilgrim's Progress.

Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,
In fiery armor, up the hèavens high
Stood watch, thou com’st to wait the morning’s song.
Thou com’st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;
Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

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