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There pass, with melancholy state, By all the solmen heaps os sate; And think, as sostly sad you tread "Above the venerable dead, "Time was, like thee they lise pofTest, "And time shall be that thou shalt rest."

Those, graves, with bending ozier bound, That namelese heave the crumbPd ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose.

The slat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chissel's flender help to same,
(Which 'ere our set os sriends decay
Their srequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race os mortals own,
Men hals ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie.
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These, all the poor remains os state,
Adorn the rich or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in same they live,
Are senseless os the same they give

Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia sades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades 1
All flow and wan, and wrapp'd with shrcids,
They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,
«* Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now, srom yon black and sun'ral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin— i

Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
(Ye toiling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)—
It sends a peal os hollow groans,
Thus speaking srom among the bones.

"When menmy scythe and darts supply,
How great a King os sears am I!
They view me like the last os things,
They make, and then they dread, my stings:
Fools! is you less provok'd your sears,
No more my spectre sorm appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
Is man would ever pass to God:
A port os calms, a state os ease,
From the rough rage os swelling seas.
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pending cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarss to sall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steedsj
And plumes os black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the scutcheons os the dead?
C

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these sorms os woe!
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell:
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring sorth to greet the glittering sun:
Such joy, tho' sar transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body phc'J,
A sew and evil years they waste:
But, when their chains are cast asido,
See the glad scene unsolding wide;
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze os day.

PASSIONS.

BY COLLINS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions ost, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,

Exultiug, trembling, raging, sainting,
Fofsest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they selt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, resin'd,
'Till once, 'tis said, when all were sii'd,
Fill'd with sury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snateh'd her instruments os sound.
And as they ost had heard.«part
Sweet lessons os her sorcesul art,
Each, sor madness rulM the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back rccoil'd, he knew not why,

Ev'n at the sound himsels had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on sire,

'In light'ningi own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept, with hurried hand, the string*.

With wosul measures, wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his g;ies beguil'd,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by sits, by starts 'twas wild.
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Bufthou O, Hops, with eyes so sair,
What was thy delighted Measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the scene prolong.
And srom the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo, still thro' all the song; A sost responsive voice was heard at every close, And hope enchanted smii'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung,—but, with a srown,

Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stsiu'd sword in thunder down, And with a withering look, The war denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Where ne'er prophetic sounds so sull os woes, And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with surious heat: And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, "Vet still he kept his wild unalter'd mein, While each strain'd ball os sight seem'd brusting srom his hud.

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