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"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed ;
For where's the middle, where's the border ?
Thy carpet now is all disorder."

Quoth Dick, “My work is yet in bits :
But still in every part it fits :
Besides, you reason like a lout :
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."
Says John, “ Thou sayest the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen:
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.
“As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends ;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

“No plan, no pattern, can we trace ;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace ;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

“But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own, the Workman is Divine.

“What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise what then we spurned,
For then the carpet will be turned.”
“ Thou’rt right,” quoth Dick,“no more I'll grumble
That this world is so strange a jumble ;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.”




I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs,
Wrinkled and curved with worldly cares ;
“Time is the warp of life,” he said ; "oh, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !"
I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled ;
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
“ Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode !"
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left its veins ; “Time!” he replied ;
“ I've lost it! ah, the treasure !” — and he died.
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years ;
They answered, “Time is but a meteor glare,”
And bade me for Eternity prepare.
I asked the Seasons, in their annual round
Which beautify or desolate the ground;
And they replied, (no oracle more wise,)
“'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!”
I asked a spirit lost,—but oh, the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak,
It cried, “ A particle ! a speck! a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite !"
Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply,-
“Time is the season fair of living well,
The path of glory or the path of hell.”
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
“ Time is the present hour, the past is fled ;
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set.”

I asked Old Father Time himself at last ;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past,-
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel,' who shall stand
One foot on sea, and one on solid land;
“Mortal !” he cried, “the mystery now is o'er ;
Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more!'



TREAD softly-bow the head

In reverent silence bow
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger ! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that


shed One by that paltry bed

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter—no crowds attend-
Enter-no guards defend

This palace gate.

1 See Rev. x



That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread ;
One silent woman stands
Lifting with meagre hands

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound

An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed—again
That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.
Oh! change-oh! wondrous change-

Burst are the prison-bars,
This moment there, so low,
So agonised, and now

Beyond the stars !
Oh! change-stupendous change !

There lies the soulless clod:
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-

Wakes with his God.

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