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"Earth to earth" and "dust to dust,"

The solemn priest hath said;
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed :
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling

And the weary are at rest.

JOHN CLARE.

BORN, 1793; DIED, 1850.

WHAT IS LIFE.

AND what is life?—An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream,—

Its length ?-A minute's pause, a moment's thought;-And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,

That, in the act of seizing, shrinks to nought.

What is vain hope?-The puffing gale of morn,
That robs each flow'ret of its gem,-and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O trouble?-Nothing can suppose (And sure the power of wisdom only knows)

What need requireth thee:

So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,

Some necessary cause must surely be. But disappointments, pains, and every woe, Devoted wretches feel,

The universal plague of life below,

Are mysteries still, 'neath fate's unbroken seal.

HUMAN LIFE.

And what is death?-Is still the cause unfound?
That dark, mysterious name, of horrid sound?—

A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.
And peace?-Where can its happiness abound?
No where at all, save Heaven and the grave.

Then what is life?-When stripp'd of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

'Tis but a trial all must undergo;

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.

129

BERNARD BARTON.
BORN -; DIED, 1850.

HUMAN LIFE.

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up: in the evening it is cut down, and withereth."-PSALM XC. 6.

I WALK'D the fields at morning's prime,
The grass was ripe for mowing;
The skylark sang his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,.
His pulse with rapture beating,

Deems life's inheritance is joy—
The future proudly greeting."

:-Alas!

I wander'd forth at noon :

On earth's maternal bosom

The scythe had left the withering grass,

And stretch'd the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,

Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve, abroad I stray'd,
Through lonely hay-fields musing,
While every breeze that round me play'd
Rich fragrance was diffusing.

The perfum'd air, the hush of eve,
To purer hopes appealing,

O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve,
Scatter'd the balm of healing.

For thus "the actions of the just,"
When memory hath enshrin'd them,
E'en from the dark and silent dust
Their odour leave behind them.

WILLIAM DRENNAN.

CHARITY TO MAN.

Он, sweeter than the sweetest flow'r,
At ev'ning's dewy close,
The will, united with the pow'r,

To succour human woes!

And softer than the softest strain

Of music to the ear,

The placid joy we give and gain,
By gratitude sincere.

The husbandman goes forth a-field,
What hopes his heart expand!
What calm delight his labours yield!
A harvest-from his hand!

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

A hand that providently throws,

Nor dissipates in vain :

How neat his field! how clean it grows!
What produce from each grain !

The nobler husbandry of mind,

And culture of the heart,

Shall this, with men, less favour find,
Less genuine joy impart.

Oh, no--your goodness strikes a root
That dies not, nor decays;
And future life shall yield the fruit,
Which blossoms now in praise.

The youthful hopes that now expand
Their green and tender leaves,
Shall spread a plenty o'er the land,
In rich and yellow sheaves.

Thus, a small bounty well bestow'd,
May perfect heaven's high plan;
First daughter to the love of God,
Is charity to Man.

FELICIA HEMANS.

BORN, 1793; DIED, 1835.

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

'Twas early day--and sunlight stream'd
Soft through a quiet room,

That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd—
Still, but with nought but gloom :
For there, secure in happy age,

Whose hope is from above,

A father commun'd with the page
Of heaven's recorded love.

131

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright
On his gray holy hair,

And touched the book with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there;
But oh! that Patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far--

A radiance all the spirit's own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm benignant eye;

Some ancient promise breathing yet
Of immortality;

Some heart's deep language, where the glow
Of quenchless faith survives;
For every feature said, "I know

That my Redeemer lives."

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death;
Silent-yet did not each young breast,
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls-and blest
That home where God is felt,

THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,
As a swift breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer'd me: 66
we roll
In light and power on high;
But of the never-dying soul
Ask that which cannot dic."

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