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How mutable is time!-the gorgeous brow Of Richb'rough is enwreathed with ivy
No trumpet, save the last, with thunder Shall ever break its warriors' dreamless
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.
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.
He soars with rapturous song to greet the
The river flows beneath-its liquid tone Breathes a sweet cadence to the heart un
And o'er the tufted grass its current pours, Where Cæsar's cohorts won the British
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
Only one year has passed since these loved
Were vocal with our mirth; when every Looked pleasure-and each voice, to joy
Breathed the fond fervent wish of health
Hope her gay chaplet wove to deck the brow
Of heartfelt peace, and crown the present
In fond anticipation brightly gleamed Across our minds the pleasing dreams of
While fancy keen, in bright perspective, shewed
The joyful prospect of domestic bliss. November then could charm: for pleasure's
Unclouded shone.-Ah! why is gladness
Earth wears not now a garb less fair than She wore, when thus the shades of autumn
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
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
The path of duty trod. Her's too a mind Well disciplined, informed, sincere, and
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.
O'er Lazarus' toinb. The privilege to weep Kind Heaven permits the woe-fraught breast to share: