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Nor only o'er the dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years away
From hoary rock, and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea;
From every blade of grass, it falls;

For still where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps

O'er evanescent joys;

Life's flowerets glittering with the dews of morn,

Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn ;

Ah soon beneath the inevitable blow,
I too shall lie, in dust and ashes low.
Then time, the conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, on my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend
Each frail beholder's doom,

O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though time's triumphant flight be shown,-
The truest index on its face,

Points from the churchyard stone.

MONTGOMERY.

O more!

NO MORE.

A harp string's deep and breaking tone,
A last, low, summer breeze, a far off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words-those murmurs of farewell-—

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,

No more!

To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice—

No more!

A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze-

No more!

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove
With all our native music in the air;

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,

And turn, and read our own heart's answer there-
No more!

Words of despair!-yet earth's, all earth's the woe Their passion breathes the desolately deep That sound in heaven-oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones-to part, to weep

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,

To wear impatiently a secret chain,

No more!

To waste the untold riches of the heart

No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn,
For human love—and never quench that thirst;
To pour the soul out, winning no return,
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed-

No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,

To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; To send our troubled spirits, through the unseen, Intensely questioning for treasures fled

No more!

Words of triumphant music! Bear me on
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn to joy, to struggle, to despair—

No more!

MRS. HEMANS

"NOT NOW."

AINTER her slow step falls from day to day— Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow, Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say— I am content to die; but oh, not now!

Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breatheNot while the birds such lays of gladness sing— Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow, I am content to die; but oh, not now!

The spring hath ripened into summer-time;
The season's viewless boundary is past;

The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime:
Oh, must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,

With silent steps, the lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear, with music in its tone.
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow:
I am content to die; but oh, not now!

Summer is gone, and autumn's sober hues

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn: Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream

To watch in silence, while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam. Cooler the breezes play around my brow: I am content to die; but oh, not now!

The bleak winds whistle-snow-showers, far and near
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and cold and drear
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends—“O laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd;
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and loud!
Spare me awhile, raise up my drooping brow;
I am content to die; but oh, not now!

The spring is come again,-the joyful spring:
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips again his wanton wing-

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! "Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond, familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;
Why did'st thou linger-thou art happier now!'

ANON.

THE EVE OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
THE WORLD.

(UT dust upon your heads, lament and weep, And utter all your minstrelsy of woe!

Go to, ye wicked, weep and howl; for all That God hath written against you is at hand. The cry of violence hath reached his ear, Hell is prepared, and Justice whets his sword.

Weep all of every name! Begin the woe,
Ye woods, and tell it to the doleful winds;
And doleful winds, wail to the howling hills;
And howling hills, mourn to the dismal vales;
And dismal vales, sigh to the sorrowing brooks;
And sorrowing brooks, weep to the weeping stream;
And weeping stream, awake the groaning deep;
And let the instrument take up the song,
Responsive to the voice, harmonious woe!
Ye Heavens, great archway of the universe,
Put sackcloth on; and Ocean clothe thyself
In garb of widowhood, and gather all
Thy waves into a groan, and utter it,

Long, loud, deep, piercing, dolorous, immense!
The occasion asks it!-Nature dies, and God
And angels come to lay her in the grave.
Meantime the earth gave symptoms of her end;
And all the scenery above, proclaimed
That the great last catastrophe was near.
The sun at rising staggered and fell back,
As one too early up, after a night

Of late debauch; then rose, and shone again, Brighter than wont; and sickened again and paused In zenith altitude, as one fatigued;

And shed a feeble twilight ray at noon,

Rousing the wolf before his time to chase

The shepherd and his sheep, that sought for light,
And darkness found, astonished, terrified;

Then out of course rolled furious down the west,
As chariot reined by awkward charioteer
And waiting at the gate, he on the earth
Gazed, as he thought he ne'er might see't again.
The bow of mercy, heretofore so fair,

Ribbed with the native hues of heavenly love,
Disastrous colours showed, unseen till now;
Changing upon the watery gulf, from pale
To watery red, and back again to pale;
And o'er it hovered wings of wrath. The Moon

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