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Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began, Of Him afford no other trace
Than this, — There liv'd a man!
WHERE IS HE?
“ Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"-Job, v.
And where is he? not by the side
Of her whose wants he lov'd to tend; Not o'er those valleys wand'ring wide,
Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend; That form belov'd he marks no more,
Those scenes admir'd no more shall see; Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair;-but where is he?
No, no; the radiance is not dim,
That us'd to gild his fav'rite hill; The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still : But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his gardens be, The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, “ where is he?"
His was the pomp, the crowded hall,
But where is now this proud display?
His riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seem'd proudly strong and where is he ?
The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shows a vacant chair ; Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone,
And Death displays his ba: ner there: The life is gone, the breath has filed,
And what has been no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread,
O where are they, and where is he ?
Written after the death of an Infant Son.
MRS ROSE OF NEW YORK.
Vision of bliss ! yet stay; ah, stay!
Ca TO TI
M W 0 TE
Dream of delight, yet once again
Soft Sleep, thy kind Lethean dews
THE SABBATH MORNING.
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Calmness sits thron'd on yon unmoving cloud.
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unhecdful of the pasture, roams at large ; And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: On other days, the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's
cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or
tree; But on this day, embosom'd in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God, -not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
ON THE SLEEPING BRAVE OF
Pour your tears wild and free,
Balm best and holiest,
Low as the lowliest!
Towering victorious ;
The end of the glorious !
Lean on that shiver'd
The willow is stronger!
The bright day-beam flashes!
And number its gashes !
Press not that hallow'd mould
In darkness enshrouded;