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productions, eminently characteristic of his genius, and will be read and probably committed to memory by all thoughtful readers. There is a solemn sadness about it which must impress the most careless.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms she speaks
A various language ; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters and the depths of air,
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again :
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods-rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn declarations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning-and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.--
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His fav’rite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,-
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the grey-headed man,-
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Is not that beautiful? Read it again—it will bear repetition.

productions, eminently characteristic of his genius, and will be read and probably committed to memory by all thoughtful readers. There is a solemn sadness about it which must impress the most careless.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,-
Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters and the depths of air,-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again :
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods-rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn declarations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.- Take the wings
Of morning-and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.--
So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His fav’rite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,-
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the grey-headed man,-
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Is not that beautiful? Read it again—it will bear repetition.

THE MARRIAGE VOW. This very beautiful little poem is extracted from one of the American Magazines, where it was published anonymously. We copied it many years ago, and it is well worth preserving in this collection.

SPEAK it not lightly—'tis a holy thing,

A bond enduring through long distant years,
When joy o'er thine abode is hovering,

Or when thine eye is wet with bitterest tears,
Recorded by an angel's pen on high,
And must be question'd in eternity!
Speak it not lightly !—though the young and gay

Are thronging round thee now with tones of mirth,
Let not the holy promise of to-day

Fade like the clouds that with the morn have birth;
But ever bright and sacred may it be,
Stored in the treasure-cell of memory.
Life will not prove all sunshine-there will come

Dark hours for all-Oh, will ye, when the night
Of sorrow gathers thickly round your home,

Love, as ye did in times when calm and bright
Seem'd the sure path ye trod, untouch'd by care,
And deem'd the future, like the present, fair ?
Eyes that now beam with health may yet grow dim,

And cheeks of rose forget their early glow;
Languor and pain assail each active limb,

And lay, perchance, some worshipp'd beauty low.
Then will ye gaze upon the alter'd brow,
And love as fondly, faithfully, as now ?
Should Fortune frown on your defenceless head,

Should storms o'ertake your bark on life's dark sea,
Fierce tempests rend the sail so gaily spread

When Hope her syren strain sang joyously,
Will ye look up, though clouds your sky o'ercast,
And say, TOGETHER we will bide the blast ?
Age with its silv'ry locks comes stealing on,

And brings the tottering step, the furrow'd cheek,
The eye from which each lustrous gleam hath gone,

And the pale lip, with accents low and weak.
Will ye then think upon your life's gay prime,
And, smiling, bid Love triumph over Time ?

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