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for there is nothing of a glowing character to be found in morality. Its object is to moderate and calm, and not to give ardour and energy to our feelings and passions; but without a high tone of feeling or passion there is neither glow nor energy.


Who sleeps below? who sleeps below?
It is a question idle all !

Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call? They murmur in the trees around, And mock thy voice, an empty sound!

A hundred summer suns have showered

Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; A hundred winter storms have lower'd

With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Say did he come from east, from west?
From southern climes, or where the pole,
With frosty sceptre, doth arrest

The howling billows, as they roll?
Within what realm of peace or strife,
Did he first draw the breath of life?

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lonely cot,

And from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread?

Say, died he ripe, and full of years
Bowded down and bent by hoary eld,
When sound was silence to his ears

And the dim' eye-ball sight withheld; Like a ripe apple falling down, Unshaken, mid the orchard brown;

When all the friends that bless'd his prime,
Were vanish'd like a morning dream;
Pluck'd one by one by spareless time,

And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Passing away all silently,

Like snow flakes melting in the sea:

Or, mid the summer of his years,

When round him throng'd his children young, When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears, And anguish dwelt on every tongue, Was he cut off, and left behind A widowed wife, scarce half resign'd?

Or, mid the sunshine of his spring

Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down, When she, his chosen, blossoming

In beauty, deem'd him all her own, And forward look'd to happier years Than ever blessed their vale of tears?

Perhaps he perished for the faith,—
One of that persecuted band,
Who suffer'd tortures, bonds, and death,
To free from mental thrall the land,
And, toiling for the martyr's fame,
Espous'd his fate, nor found a name !

Say, was he one to science blind,
A groper in earth's dungeon dark?
Or one, whose bold aspiring mind

Did in the fair creation mark
The Maker's hand, and kept his soul
Free from this grovelling world's controul?

Hush, wild surmise !-'tis vain-'tis vain-
The summer flowers in beauty blow,
And sighs the wind, and floods the rain,
O'er some old bones that rot below;
No other record can we trace
Of fame, or fortune, rank, or race!

Then what is life, when thus we see

No trace remains of life's career?Mortal! whoe'er thou art, for thee

A moral lesson gloweth here; Put'st thou in aught of earth thy trust? "Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust.

What doth it matter then, if thus,

Without a stone, without a name, To impotently herald us,

We float not on the breath of fame; But, like the dew-drop from the flower, Pass, after glittering for an hour?

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Since soul decays not; freed from earth
And earthly coils it bursts away;
Receiving a celestial birth,

And spurning off its bonds of clay,
It soars, and seeks another sphere,
And blooms through heaven's eternal year!

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Do good; shun evil; live not thou,
As if at death thy being died;
Nor error's syren voice allow

To draw thy steps from truth aside;
Look to thy journey's end-the grave!
And trust in Him whose arm can save.


Blackwood's Magazine.


THERE may be poetry without nature, and nature without poetry; that is, a thought may be expressed poetically though it is false, and a thought may be true though not expressed poetically. In the following lines, we believe every sentiment is at once natural and poetic at the same time. There is always great danger in attempting to throw a diviner charm over the beauty of woman, by images drawn from sensible, or inanimate nature; at least few poets have succeeded in the application of such images; but we think the comparison in the last lines, between the "lights gleaming around the brow" of the fair and the summer sky, is both happy and natural.


I knew not that the world contain'd

A form so lovely as thine own;

Nor deem'd that where such beauty reign'd
Humility would fix her throne.

For I had mark'd where eyes were bright,
Too well their owners knew their pow'r,
And arm'd them with that dazzling light
The sun emits at noon-tide's hour:

Too proud to veil a single ray,
Or one effulgent glance surrender,
And glittering with the blaze of day,
A scorning twilight's softer splendor.

I knew not where the form display'd
Such symmetry and grace as thine,
That intellect would lend its aid,
For I had marked where form and face
Had beauty's varied charms combined;
There oft was wanting feeling's grace,-
The beam of soul-the ray of mind.
And vain has been each studied art,
And futile every cold endeavour-
The light that comes not from the heart,
A moment shines-then fades for ever.
But I, at last, have turned from those
Whom once I knew, to gaze on thee,-
On thee, whose cheek's divinest glows
Reveal thy bosom's purity.

The summer sky is calm-serene-
The summer ocean mildly fair,

As if some bright-some heavenly scene
In beauty were reflected there;
And thus when on thy brow I gaze,

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And view the lights around it gleaming,
They seem to be the living rays

From heart, and soul, and spirit beaming.


London Magazine.

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