Praise trembled still on each expiring breath, And holy triumph beamed from every eye. Then gentle hands their "dust to dust" consign; With quiet tears, the simple rites are said; And here they sleep, till at the trump divine, The earth and ocean render up their dead. ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST THOUGH short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there! Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroyed her favourite son ! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own Genius gave the fatal blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck Eagle stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart: Which made that shorten'd span one long Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel disease; Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope, While the same plumage that had warmed Meek resignation, pious charity; And, since this world was not the world for thee, Far from thy path removed, with partial care, Strife, glory, gain, and Pleasure's flowery snare, Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, And fix'd on Heaven thy unreverted eye! Oh! mark'd from birth, and nurtur'd for the skies! In youth, with more than learning's wisdom, wise! As sainted martyrs, patient to endure! Simple, as unwean'd infancy, and pure! Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, Which Christ's atoning blood hath wash'd away!) By mortal sufferings now no more oppress'd, Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destin'd rest! While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom, Pour forth a Father's sorrows on thy tomb? ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE. BYRON. UNHAPPY WHITE! while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. AN ELEGY. C. A. ELTON. A SHADOW on my spirit fell, When my hush'd footstep from thee pass'd; And sad to me thy mild farewell, To me, who found it was thy last; And when I saw thee next, a veil Was drawn upon thy features pale. They strewed thee, in thy narrow bed, With roses from thy own loved bowers: In melting anguish memory fled Back to thy valued rural hours; The God, whose presence met thee there, Whose life had been a hymn of praise: Thy God was nigh-thy Shepherd God, With comfort of his staff and rod. I lay thee where the loved are laid: come; Still voices whisper through the shade; A light is glimmering round the tomb; The temple rends! the sleep is endedThe dead are gone! the pure ascended! ON THE DEATH OF A WIFE. LORD PALMERSTON. WHOE'ER, like me, with trembling anguish brings His dearest earthly treasure to these springs, Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and pain, Shall court these salutary springs in vain : Condemn'd, like me, to hear the faint reply, To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye, From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death, And watch in dumb despair the short'ning breath: If chance should bring him to this humble line, Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine. Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast, Whose virtue warm'd me, and whose beauty bless'd, Fram'd ev'ry tie that binds the heart to prove, Her duty friendship, and her friendship love. But yet rememb'ring that the parting sigh Appoints the just to slumber, not to die, The starting tear I check'd,-I kiss'd the rod, And not to earth resign'd her, but to God! AN EPITAPH ON FOUR INFANTS. ROBINSON. BOLD Infidelity, turn pale, and die! Beneath this stone four infants' ashes lie: Say, are they lost or saved? If death's by sin, they sinn'd because they're here; If heaven's by works, in heaven they can't appear: Reason, ah! how depraved! Revere the BIBLE's sacred page: the knot's untied: EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ERE sin could blight, or sorrow fade, ANON. So fades the lovely blooming flower, C. WESLEY. BENEATH, a sleeping infant lies, To earth whose body lent; More glorious shall hereafter rise, Though not more innocent. When the Archangel's trump shall blow, And souls to bodies join, What crowds will wish their lives below, Had been as short as thine. AN EPITAPH. COWPER. BLAME not the monumental stone we raise, 'Tis to the Saviour's, not the creature's praise: Sin was the whole that she could call her own, Her goodness all deriv'd from Him alone; To Sin her conflicts, pains, and griefs she owed, Her conqu'ring faith and patience He bestow'd: Reader! mayst thou obtain like precious faith, To smile in anguish, and rejoice in death! ANON. A SOUL prepar'd needs no delays, They died, for Adam sinn'd ;-they live,- The flesh rests here till Jesus come: for Jesus died. To claim his treasure from the tomb. Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. I've lost a day"-the prince who nobly cried, Had been an emperor without his crown; Of Rome? say rather, lord of human race : He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. So should all speak: so reason speaks in all: From the soft whispers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, For rescue from the blessing we possess ! Time the supreme;-Time is eternity; Pregnant with all eternity can give ; Pregnant with all, that makes archangels smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth power ethereal, only not adored. RUINS OF PALMYRA. MALCOLM. SAD city of the silent place! The eternal ruins frowning stand, |