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Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned;
The table, that his love has crowned,
They ne'er again shall gather round,
Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
Then, when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
I found that lily’s bloom
It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
I sat by the lily’s bell,
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,
I looked where the leaves were laid,
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
-->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:
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!
“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,
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
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
There’s one in the next field—of sweet sixteen—
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
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?
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
“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,