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'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young

Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

THE CHURCHYARD.

L. E. LANDON.

The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground,
Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead
Slumber, where all religious impulses,
And sad and holy feelings, angel-like,

Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake
Those sorrowful emotions in the heart

Which purify it, like a temple meet

For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life,
The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here
Do thy remembrances intrude?

The willow shade is on the ground,
A green and solitary shade;
And many a wild flower on that mound
Its pleasant summer home has made.

And every breath that waves a leaf
Flings down upon the lonely flowers
A moment's sunshine, bright and brief-
A blessing looked by passing hours.

Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air,
Half sleep, half song-half false, half true,
As if the wind that brought them there
Had touched them with its music too,

It is the very place to dream

Away a twilight's idle rest;

Where Thought floats down a starry stream, Without a shadow on its breast.

Where Wealth, the fairy gift, 's our own,
Without its low and petty cares;
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown
To hide the weary face she wears.

Where hopes are high, yet cares come not, Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea, Its froth and depth-where Love is what Love only in a dream can be.

I cannot muse beside that mound

I cannot dream beneath that shadeToo solemn is the haunted ground Where death his resting-place has made.

I feel my heart beat but to think
Each pulse is bearing life away;
I cannot rest upon the grave,
And not feel kindred to its clay.

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There is a name upon the stone

Alas! and can it be the same

The young, the lovely, and the loved?—
It is too soon to bear thy name.

Too soon!-oh no, 'tis best to die
Ere all of life save breath is fled;

Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes, Have long been numbered with the dead?

But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright—
No check, no soil had either known;
The angel natures of yon sky

Will only be to thee thine own.

Thou knew'st no rainbow-hopes that weep
Themselves away to deeper shade;
Nor Love, whose very happiness

Should make the wakening heart afraid.

The green leaves e'en in spring they fall,
The tears the stars at midnight weep,
The dewy wild flowers-such as these
Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.

For human tears are lava-drops,

That scorch and wither as they flow; Then let them flow for those who live, And not for those who sleep below.

Oh, weep for those whose silver chain

Has long been loosed, and yet live onThe doomed to drink of life's dark wave, Whose golden bowl has long been gone!

Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn, Dragged downward by some earthly tie, By some vain hope, some vainer love, Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.

THE BATTLE FIELD.

MRS. HEMANS.

I LOOKED on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array, And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadowed the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear,

As the ears of the harvest unnumbered they stood;
I heard the stern shout, as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the
wood.

Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were rolled,
Uprousing the wolf from the depths of his lair;
On high to the gust streamed the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of Hate, and the scowl of Despair.

I looked on the field of contention again,

When the sabre was sheathed, and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fern softly sighed in the low wailing blast.

Unmoved as the lake in its hour of repose,

And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepened

blue;

And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the foxglove lay gemmed with its pearl-drops

of dew.

M 3

But where swept the ranks of that dark-frowning host, As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed! Where now were the thunders of victory's boast,— The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed!

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the ione scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-covered mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish and died!

Oh! Glory!-beyond thy famed guerdon's extent, For this toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot; A name like the mist, when night's beacons are spentA grave, with its tenants unwept and forgot!

THE SHIP AT SEA.

MALCOLM.

A WHITE Sail gleaming on the flood,
And the bright-orbed sun on high,
Are all that break the solitude

Of the circling sea and sky;
Nor cloud, nor cape is imaged there;
Nor isle of ocean, nor of air.

Led by the magnet o'er the tides,
That bark her path explores,-

Sure as unerring instinct guides
The birds to unseen shores :

With wings that o'er the waves expand,
She wanders to a viewless land.

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