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The morning may break

O'er the valley in gladness ;
But the

eyes cannot wake
That dispelled all thy sadness.

The evening may come,

But its fall shall endear not;
For the

that came

In the dusk thou shalt hear not.

thee ;

Weep, Emmeline, weep,
And no tongue


Weep, Emmeline, weep,
For the friends that did love thee.

W. Knox.



Wild as the rocking of a bark upon a stormy sea,
Are the wanderings of the spirit, through the mists of re-

verie ;

And yet there is an unity, though indistinct and dim,
Like the reflected rainbow-hụes on the watery, skies that


A veil of sadness had passed o'er, my spirit like a cloud, Or as around the lonely dead, is drawn the winding

shroud; I paesed on in my mournfulness, and in the churchyard's

gloom, I sat me down to meditate upon an ancient tomb.

I looked around as if to ease my spirit's deep distress, But Nature's self appeared to join, in my sad weariness ; The sun was passing to his resto--the clouds were sailing

by, And the wind had spread his wings, upon the fretwork of

the sky

His wings were shaking heavily, and sadly sighed the

trees, You mought have thought that a spirit passed upon the

fearful breeze; For the grass bowed down upon the earth, and trembled

as with fear, And I shuddered as the rustling sounds came sweeping

past my ear.

Oh it was very loneliness, yet I could not choose but'stay, Though the awful thoughts that o'er me came, filled me

with dark dismay; I could not choose but look, upon the tombs so lowly laid, I could not choose but think upon the silent and the


Oh ye

dead ! Oh ye dead ! ye of the visage pale, Ye of the place of vision in Hinnom's lonely vale, How wonderful a tale is in your prison-house concealed, A tale we may not-cannot know, till all things are 're


Ye fell away as wavelets, from the rolling sea of time,
One day was heard the sounds of joy—the next your fune-

ral chime Ye fell away in the rush of years, your day of life passed

o'er, And the place that once hath known ye well, now knoweth ye

no more!

Yet though ye sleep the dreamless sleep, the rustling grass

doth wave,

And fall the heavy churchyard dews, like tears upon your But I love not to look on your tombs, nor the heaped up


earth around, For an awful tale of mortality, it speaks without a sound.

I love to look on the lonely sea, ye slumber sweetest there, No foot there spurns your resting-place, or lays your dry

bones bare: So gaze we on the sea'till mingled with the soul, The restless billows and the sense together wildly roll.

Yet let us think of glory as we look upon

the dead, And think not that in endless sleep, their bones at rest are


For when the sun of faith hath risen on the ocean dark of

sleep, Their dreamy shades in its light will rise forbidding us to


Ye of the lovely forms !—where is your glory now ?
The charnel mould is on each hand, the death-sweat on

each brow : Arise, arise ye glorious ones! better be walking dead, Than in corruption's horrors to repose your low-laid head.

Ye of the mighty arm-how powerless ye lie,
Ye of the lip of eloquence are darkly slumbering by,

Yet the angels blast shall the mighty ones, with strength

again inspire, And to the eloquent be given tongues cloven as of fire.'

But oh where are the dearest ones, we cherished above all ? No voice comes from the narrow bed, no sound from the

dreary pall; 'Tis silence, for no sound may pass from yonder lifeless clay, Save the echoes of the hollow tombs, that answer where

they may.

There's a language in your silence, it breaks on the mental

ear, And the quivering lip of sorrow makes its accents to ap

pear, Ashes to ashes,' Think ye it may speak of further trust ? It cannot pierce the charnel's gloom, and there 'tis . dust to


I looked around me yet again the sun bad sunk in night, The moon poured down her cataract of pale and flooding

light; Like the bright sun's fall are the living ones that sink be

neath the earth, But like the glorious moon will rise in heaven a second



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