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'Twas thine, celestial Hervey! to illume With Hope's bright day-spring e'en the sombre

grave, To shed a halo o'er the mould'ring tomb, And bid the weakest soul the future brave.

Thy bright example taught the timid soul
Through Death's dark vale with dauntless feet to

And cheerful to the weary distant goal
By Calv'ry's cross the pilgrim's footsteps led,

Oft have I read thy soul inspiring page,
Till magic Fancy's visionary eye
Has wafted me from Time's bewild'ring stage
To the vast realms of deep Eternity.


Now, Theron, O'er thy tomb I've drop'd the tear
Thy sainted ashes from the wand'rer claim,
And oft shall fleet-wing'd thought conduct me there,
To read the simple record of thy name.

There need-st no proud mausoleum sculptured, fair
A transient lustre to thy name to give;
The simple slab, preserved with pious care,
Shall moulder into dust-but thou shalt live,

Thy memory, cherish'd in thy sacred page,
Shall last,--shall flourish in immortal bloom,-
Defying Time and Death's rapacious rage,
And bloom like Eden even in the tomb.



Is this Earth a barren spot,

Dark without a single ray? ? Look around, and say it not,

Beauty reigns through night and day.

Were the woods, and hills, and streams,
Earth's soft

and Heaven's pure

blue All the radiance of its beams;

Formed by God, in vain for you?

Were the notes that Music wreathes,

In her sweet enchanting chain,
All the impassioned sounds she breathes,

Bid to flow, for you, in vain?

In the garden of the soul,

Is there nothing to delight? Where the sweetest passions roll,

And the Fancy ever bright?

Love and Friendship, have not they,

Through the coldest bosom shone, Beamed across its ice a ray,

Fires like these could beam alone ?

True, indeed! the stain of Sin,

We perceive upon it all; And the best around, within,

Bears the token of the Fall.


may wish for purer skies, Fields celestial, springs of bliss, Yet we gratefully may prize,

Such a lovely world as this!

We may

wish for souls as chaste, As the moon or mountain snow; Yet each hallowed pleasure taste,

God has given to man below:

Call not earth a barren spot !

Pass it not ungrateful by ! 'Tis to man a lovely lot,

Though a lovelier rests on high.




Ah! what enchantment Nature's hand supplies !

What witching scen'ry decks this blest retreat! What headlands green and promontories rise,

Of old patrician oak’s the favorite seat !

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