As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

THE COMMON LOT.

J. MONTGOMERY.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There liv'd a man;-and wнO WAS HE! -Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast:
His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear!

-Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;
Had friends, his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.

Once mark'd thy shadow with delighted eye, Nor thought it fled,-how certain and how fast! Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath;

The pastor and his flock alike have slept,

And "dust to dust" proclaim'd the stride of death.

Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,

Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile, As hope, and youth, and life, were in our pow'r; So smiling and so perishing the while. I heard the village-bells with gladsome sound (When to these scenes a stranger I drew near) Proclaim the tidings of the village round,

While mem'ry wept upon the good man's bier. Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone; While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, And strangers gaze upon my humble stone. Enough, if we may wait in calm content

The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that Heav'n has lent And leave the issue to Thy will, O God.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN

DALE.

SHE saw him-Death's untimely prey,
Struck with the blight of slow decline;
She watch'd his vigour waste, way,
His ardent spirit droop and pine.

The rose upon his cheek, she knew,
Bloom'd not with health's transparent hue;
It was a softer, fainter glow-

A tint of fading loveliness,
Which told, a canker lurked below:

So gleams o'er fields of wintry snow
The pale moon, cold and comfortless.
And oft she mark'd within his eye
A wild, unwonted brilliancy,
The lovely, but delusive ray
Of nature, sinking to decay;

And oft she caught his stifled moan-
It breathed a deep and hollow tone,
Which told of death, ere life was gone.
At times, when fever's burning flush
Heightened consumption's hectic blush,
Fond hope-the latest still to leave,
The first to flatter and deceive-
Once more would brighten-but to fly

273

When that false flush forsook his cheek,
And spoke the pang he would not speak,
And froze her fears to certainty,
Nor deem it strange, that hope had power
To soothe her soul in such an hour;
Where time has rent the lordly tower,

And moss entwines the arches gray,
Springs many a light and lovely flower
That lends a lustre to decay.
Thus, while existence wanes away,
Consumption's fever'd cheek will bloom,
And beauty's brightest beams will play
In mournful glory o'er the tomb.

4

Whate'er his inud pangs might be, He told not-mate, and meekly still,

T