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Her frame near dissolution'. He perceived'
Th’unequal conflict, and as angels look'
On dying saints', his eyes compassion shed',

With love illumined high. “Fear not',” he said',
35 “Sweet innocencé! thou stranger to offencé,
And inward' storm'! HE', who


skies involves' In frowns of darkness', ever smiles on thee' With kind regard'. O'er thēe the secret shaft'

That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour' 40 Of noon', flies harmless'; and that very voice',

Which thunders terror through the guilty heart,
With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thinè.
'Tis safety to be near thee', surè, and thus"

To clasp perfection!” From his void embracé, 45 Mysterious Heaven'! that moment to the ground'

A blackened corsé was struck the beauteous maid'.
But who can paint the lover' as he stood',
Pierced by severe amazement', hating life',

Speechless', and fixed in all the death of woè! 50 Só, faint resemblancè! on the marble tomb'

The well-dissembled mourner stooping stands',
Forever silent, and forever sad'.



Iambic. Epic.
THE bell strikes ONE'. We take no note of time
But from its loss': to give it then a tongué
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoké

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright', 5 It is the knell of my departed hours'.

Where are they'? With the years beyond the flood'.
It is the signal that demands despatch':
How much is to be doné? My hopes and fears'

Start up alarmed', and o'er life's narrow vergé 10 Look down'—on wható? A fathomless abyss'.

A dread eternity'! how surely miné !
And can eternity belong to mė',
Poor pensioner' on the bounties of an hour'!

How poor', how rich', how abject', how august“, 15 How complicate', how wonderful, is man'!

How passing wonder HE' who made him such'!

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Who centered in our make such strange extremes
From different natures marvellously mixed —

Connection exquisite of different worlds' !
20 Distinguished link' in being's endless chain'!

Midway' from nothing“ to the Deity'!
A beam ethereal', sullied' and absorpt'!
Though sullied and dishonored', still divine !

Dim miniature of greatness absolutè ! 25 An heir of glory', a frail child of dust'!

Helpless immortal! insect infinitè !
A worm'! a god"!—I tremble at myself',
And in myself am lost'. At home a stranger,

Thought wanders up and down', surprised', aghast', 30 And wondering at her own'. How reason reels"!

O what a miracle to man' is man'!
Triumphantly distressed"! what joy'! what dread'!
Alternately transported' and alarmed';

What can preserve my lifé ! or whåť destroy'! 35 An angel's' arm' can't snatch me from the grave;

Legions of angels' can't confine me thērè.

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Iambic. Heroic, or epic.
But thoù, false guardian of a charge too good',
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood' !
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath";

These cheeks now fading at the blast of death':
5 Cold is that breast which warmed the world before“,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus', if eternal Justice rules the ball',
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall.

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits',
10 And frequent herses shall besiege your gates';

There passengers shall stand", and pointing say“,
( While the long fun’rals blacken all the way',)
Lò! these were thēy whose souls the Furies steeled',

And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield 15 Thus unlamented pass the proud away',

The gaze of fools', and pageant of a day'!
So perish all', whose breast ne'er learned to glow'
For others' good', or melt at others' woè.

Life The

What can atoné, (oh, ever injured shadè !) 20 Thy fate un'pitied', and thy rites un paid'?

No friend's complaint', no kind domestic tear',
Pleased thy pale ghost', or graced thy mournful bier'.
By foreign hands' thy dying eyes were closed',

By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed', 25 By foreign hands' thy humble grave adorned',

By strangers honored', and by strangers mourned'!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear",
Grievel for an hour', perhaps', then mourn a year“,

And bear about the mockery of woé
30 To midnight dances', and the public show^?

What though no weeping Loves thy ashes gracé,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room',

Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
35 Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast':
There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow',
There the first roses of the year shall blow";

While angels' with their silver wings o'ershadé 40 The ground', now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stoné, a name',
That once had beauty', titles', wealth', and famè.
How loved', how honored ônce, avails thee not',

To whom' related', or by whom begot ; 45 A heap of dust alone remains of thée;

'Tis all thou art', and āll the proud' shall be !

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung',
Deaf the praised ear', and mute the tuneful tongue".

Even he', whose soul now melts in mournful lays', 50 Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear' he

pays ;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part',
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart ;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o’er',
The muse forgoť, and thou' be loved no more !


DESCRIPTION OF A DEATH SCENE. Grace, agitated by these events', and her slight form daily becoming more shadowy', seemed like a celestial spirit', which’,

having performed its mission on earth', melts into a misty wreath', then disappears forever. Hers had always been the kind of beauty that is eloquence', though it speaks not. The love she inspired was like that of some fair infant, which we would fain clasp to our hearts in its guileless beauty'; and when it repays our fondness with a cherub smile, its angelic influence rouses all that there is of heaven within the soul. Deep compassion was now added to these emotions'; and wherever she moved, the eye of pity greeted her, as it would some wounded bird', nestling to the heart in its timid loveliness. Every one who knew her felt the influence of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of character'; but very few had penetrated into its recesses', and discovered its hidden treasures. Melody was there', but it was too plaintivé, too delicate in its combination', to be produced by an unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching effect', though they could not define its origin;like the servant mentioned by Addison', who drew the bow across every string of her master's violin', and then complained that she could not', for her lifé, find where the tune was secreted.

Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed deep within its caverns; and to one only' is access ever granted. Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on the surface —but it was as deep as it was pure. It was a pool which had granted its healing influence to one', but could never repeat' the miracle, though an angel should trouble its waters. Assuredly' he that could mix death' in the cup of love which he offered to one so young', so fair', and so true', was guilty as the priest who administered poison in the holy eucharist.

Lucretia, now an inmate of the family', read to her", supported her across the chamber', and watched her brief', gentlé slumbers with an intense interest, painfully tinged with selfreproach. She was the cause of this premature decay',-innocent', indeed', but still the causè. Under such circumstances, the conscience is morbid in its sensibility',-unreasonable in its acuteness'; and the smiles and forgiveness of those we have injured', tear and scorch it like burning pincers. Yet there was one who suffered even more than Lucretiá,—though he was never conscious of giving one moment's pain to the object of his earliest affection. During the winter', every leisure moment which doctor Willard's numerous avocations allowed him', was spent in Miss Osborne's sick chamber"; and every toné, every loôk of his' went to her heart with a thrilling expression', which seemed to say, “ Would I could die for theé! Oh! would' to God I could die for theé !”

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Thus pillowed on the arm of Friendship', and watched over by the arm of Lové, Grace languidly awaited the return of spring'; and when May did arrivé, wasted as she was', she seemed to enjoy its pure breath' and sunny smile. Alas'! that the month, which dances around the flowery earth with such mirthful step and beaming glancé, should call so many victims of consumption to their last home! Towards the close of this delightful season', the invalid', bolstered in her chair', and surrounded by her affectionate family', was seated at the window', watching the declining sun. There was deep silence for a long whilè ;—as if her friends feared that a breath might scare the flitting soul from its earthly habitation. Henry and Lucretia sat on either side, pressing her hands in mournful tenderness'; doctor Willard leaned over her chair and looked up to the unclouded sky', as if he reproached it for mocking him with brightness'; and her father watched the hectic flush upon her cheek with the firmness of Abraham', when he offered his only son upon the altar'. Oh! how would the heart of that aged sufferer have rejoiced within him', could hē too have exchanged the victim !

She had asked Lucretia to place Somerville's' rose on the window beside her. One solitary blossom was on it', and she reached forth her weak hand to pluck ito; but its leaves scattered beneath her trembling touch. She looked up to Lucretia with an expression', which her friend could never forget",— and one cold tear slowly glided down her pallid cheek. Gently as a mother kisses her sleeping babé, doctor Willard brushed it away', and turning hastily to conceal his quivering lip', he clasped Henry's hand with convulsive errergy as he whispered', “Oh! God of mercies', how willingly would I have wiped away all tears from her eyes' !

There is something peculiarly impressive in manly grief. The eye of woman overflows as readily as her heārt; but when waters gush from the rock', we feel that they are extorted by no gentle blow.

The invalid looked at him with affectionate regret', as if she thought it a crimè not to love such endearing kindness'; and every one present made a powerful effort to suppress painful, suffocating emotion. Lucretia had a bunch of purple violets fastened in her girdlè,—and with a forced smile she placed them in the hands of her dying friend. She looked at them a moment with a sort of abstracted attention', and an expression strangely unearthly', as she said, “ I have thought that wild flowers might be the alphabet of angels',-whereby they write

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