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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?

HENRY NEELE.

"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 banner there:
The life is gone, the breath has fled,

And what has been no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he?

THE DREAM.

Written after the death of an Infant Son.

MRS ROSE OF NEW YORK.

VISION of bliss! yet stay; ah, stay!
Why flit'st thou on swift wing away;
Why to my throbbing heart restore
The cherub form I still adore,
Then, envious, from my eager sight,
Shroud it in shades of deepest night?
'Twas but a dream-be still my heart,
Caus'd by distemper'd Fancy's art,
Which fondly turning to the past,
Wrought the dear cheat too fair to last.
Swifter than thought it glides away-
Delusive bliss, one moment stay!

Dream of delight, yet once again
Return and sooth regret's fond pain;
Restore again that laughing eye
Ting'd with heav'n's pure cerulean dye;
That bloomy cheek, so soft and fair,
Elysium's sweets seem'd treasur'd there :-
Of auburn hair the wavy shade
That o'er his snowy forehead play'd;
The scarlet lip, th' endearing wile,
The polish'd form, th' enchanting smile-
All that a mother's heart could charm,
Or with fond pride her bosom warm.

Soft Sleep, thy kind Lethean dews
O'er ev'ry willing sense effuse-
The substance lost, O give the shade;
Let no rude noise again invade-
Fair as in life my arms he blest,
Bring the bright Vision to my rest.
Since dreams are all I now can hope,
O give the dear illusion scope;
Again the fancied bliss restore,
Benignant Power, I ask no more.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

i

GRAHAME.

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.

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Calmness sits thron'd on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the
dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heav'n-tun'd song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village
broods:

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceas'd; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on

man,

Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful 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,
While, wand'ring slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heav'n may be one Sabbath without end.

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