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How mutable is time!-the gorgeous brow Of Richb'rough is enwreathed with ivy

now;

[deep,

No trumpet, save the last, with thunder Shall ever break its warriors' dreamless

sleep,

Nor song of triumph charm the listless ear, Unless it rolls from an immortal sphere!

Thus will it be-the plough succeeds the sword,

And nature's early quiet is restored.
Lo! here the ivy, like a mourner crawls
Around the mouldering fragment of these

walls;

The turf is rich with flow'rs; the lark has found

His summer-home upon the balmy ground; And often, from the whispering field of [morn.

corn,

He soars with rapturous song to greet the

The river flows beneath-its liquid tone Breathes a sweet cadence to the heart un

known;

And o'er the tufted grass its current pours, Where Cæsar's cohorts won the British

shores !

REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTH-DAY (NOV. 26th.)

How oft with every kindly sentiment Hath this once festive day been welcom'd

here!

Only one year has passed since these loved

haunts

[eye

Were vocal with our mirth; when every Looked pleasure-and each voice, to joy

attuned,

Breathed the fond fervent wish of health

and joy.

Hope her gay chaplet wove to deck the brow

Of heartfelt peace, and crown the present

scene.

In fond anticipation brightly gleamed Across our minds the pleasing dreams of

bliss;

While fancy keen, in bright perspective, shewed

The joyful prospect of domestic bliss. November then could charm: for pleasure's

ray

Unclouded shone.-Ah! why is gladness

fled?

[erst

Earth wears not now a garb less fair than She wore, when thus the shades of autumn

low'red:

Nought here seems changed; save that each once loved form,

And countenance, where cheerfulness then smiled,

Now bear, though still serene, the marks of grief.

The kindred circle shews a chilling void; Affection's chain one treasured link has lost; One loved inhabitant of friendship's home Now sleeps with the cold and silent grave. Within how short a space has been consigned To the cold dust-"all that could die" of her Whom living we esteemed; whom dead, deplore!

Therefore is gladness fled.-Let nature have

Her just, her reasonable tribute. Lost on

earth

The friend-the valued friend-whom but to know

Most truly was to love. Her's was a heart Kind, generous, liberal, which at virtue's

call

The path of duty trod. Her's too a mind Well disciplined, informed, sincere, and

pure,

Imbued with the great truths her Saviour taught.

Each intellectual gift, that can exalt

The human mind, kind Heaven on her bestowed;

While those embellishments, which fascinate,

Their charms imparted to exalt her worth. Justly, indeed, may nature claim her due, And seek that sweet relief which, at the

grave [pain, Of one beloved, HE sought who felt the The keenest anguish, of humanity, Unknown its guilt and sin.

wept

For Jesus

O'er Lazarus' toinb. The privilege to weep Kind Heaven permits the woe-fraught breast to share:

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