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Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or e'en,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise.
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceald,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.


Is there a spot in memory's shrine

More dear than all the rest,
Sure'tis where those we loved, no more

By sin or grief oppress’d,
Beneath the daisied turf awhile in


do softly sleep, And flowers, dissolved in tears of dew, alone sweet

vigils keep.
Thither at rosy morning tide,

Thither at sultry noon,
But chiefly when the evening sky

Waits for the summer moon,
When all is still, and not a leaf doth quiver in the

grove, Thither, by paths unknown to us, sweet fancy

loves to rove.



We may not trace with mortal eye

The path of trackless thought,
Nor ken how time and space to it

Are but as things of nought;
We only know it is a boon by God to mortals

given, That they, while pilgrims here on earth, might

reach in thought e’en heaven.

A sudden pause, a word, a look,

Mid those whom Death hath left us,
Summons, unbid, to instant view,

Friends of whom he hath reft us;
Then by-gone scenes we trace again, and days live

o'er again In tearful pleasure, though the soul shrinks from

the pleasing pain.

Once more we mark the well-known form

To which so oft we've clung,
Fancy we hear, as once we heard,

Sweet accents from that tongue
Now mute in death ; but like a dream, anon, at

sudden wave Of Fancy's magic rod they pass, and sink into the


Lo! we are standing on the mound

Which hides the once-loved head-
Hush! beating heart, 'tis holy ground,

The chambers of the dead.



Be still, vain thoughts; look up, my soul, to

heaven ; why wilt thou weep? Not flowers alone, but angels, here their solemn

vigil keep.
They are above thee, and around

Through all the silent air;
In life, unseen, they scan thy path,

Thy way most secret share.
In death, when mortal frame returns back to its

native earth, Still are they nigh to welcome thee to an immor

tal birth.



Ah, little think the gay licentious crowd,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround,-
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ;
Ah, little think they, while they dance along,

many feel this very moment death,
And all the sad variety of pain ;
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame; how many bleed,
By shameful variance between man and man;
How many pine in want and dungeon-glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs ; how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread



Of misery; sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty ; how many sbake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse,-
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter to the tragic Muse :
E’en in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join’d,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep-retir’d distress ; how many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond


Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall’d,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think ;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.


EFTSOONs they heard a most delicious sound
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,

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Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere. Right hard it was for wight which did it hear To read what manner music that mote be; For all that pleasing is to living ear

Was there consorted in one harmony-
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree !

The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet ;
Th' angelical, soft, trembling voices made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet,
With the base murmur of the water's fall;
The water's fall, with difference discreet,

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.



OTHERS admire in thee a poet's fire,
So sweetly temper'd to a classic lyre;
Others, how deepest thought and wise design
Put on harmonious beauty in each line ;
Others, how thy sweet urn of sacred glee
Lights earthly things with heavenly charity;
Others, how every turn and winding scene
Leads to a temple in the blue serene;
One would to thy meek willow's lesson turn,
One melodies of mountain streamlet learn;
One loves thy red November's calm decay,
One the bright lengthening of thine April day.

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