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“ It is good for us, &c.”__o__" One for Elias."
· Matthew 17–4. OH yes, it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build---but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve tbat encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no!
For see they would bind him below.
To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride? The trappings which dizen the proud ?
Alas : they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe and the
The treasures are squandered again,
To the pleasures that mirth can afford ?
Ah, here is a plentiful board!.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Or Aled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied !
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve: Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear,
Which Compassion herself could relieve; Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear--Peace, peace is the watchword---the only one here!
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies euow! Beneath the cold dead! and around the dark stone! These are signs of a sceptre that none may disown!
Then the first Tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise :
The second to Faith which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies?
H. D. HETHERINGTON.
At first, to sure the mind of man,
And moving sounds, to bless the span
Are emblems of the meteor's glare:
And true experience may declare:
At which the choicest wines abound,
While repartees go smartly round;
Presiding e'er the social scene,
And shades of sorrow intervene;
When on some fair one's gentle breast, .
Perchance a moment I recline,
And to the winds its woe resign;
No thrills of love pervade my frame;
A transient charm, that can compose
And all its wounds of anguish close;
An antidote to soothe my soul,
(Rebellious to their soft controul)
Nor music's most exalted strain,
And respite yield to mental pain;
(Its wandering course restrained) shall tend :
THE ROSY CHEEK'D LASS THAT LIVED
DOWN IN THE VALE.
With a tear of delight to those days I recur,
vale. Sometimes when my spirit dejected has beeni, I have walk'd down the grove with a sorrowful mien, Yet, backward returned through the very same place, With my heart quite at ease, and a smile on my face; Oh what was the charm o'er my grief could prevail ? 'Twas my rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the
. vale. Now reclined in my bower on this fine summer eve, From all I behold what delight I receive! . . See yon sweet little cherub that flies o'er the green, So eager to tell. what strange sights he has seen! He is mine, and his mother, who smiles at each tale. Is the rosy-cheek'd lass that lived down in the vale.'
J. PLAYER, Newcastle upon Tyne.
And gilding the landscape with radiance divine, May give joy to the heart o'er which pleasure has
power, But eve's pensive beauties are dearer to mine. How soothing alone by a streamlet to wander, Whose scarce-ruffled face shows the pale evening
moon, In glory less bright, but more lovely and tender
Than Sol's gaudy beams in the gay hour of noon. · Through trees gently sighing, the cool breezeof Even,
Seems Sympathy's voice to the ear of Despair;
But the dew will be dried when the morning returning
Gives life to the busy, the happy, the gay; And the breeze now so sweetly and tenderly mourning,
By the rude chilling blasts will be driven away. Thus the hopes I so long and so'fondly have cherish'd,
Are dispelled by the stern voice of merciless scorn; And the friends who wept with me, like dew-drops
have perished, While I remain lonely, unpitied, forlorn. But here though each joy from my heart has been
riven, Soon shall my glad soul from its prison be free; A voice whispers sweetly, “ Thy rest is in Heaven,
On earth nought but misery e'er waited on thee.” Blest spirit, I come-how my soul yearns to meet
thee; On earth thou wert dearer to me than the light; In Heaven with passion eternal l'll greet thee-
There sorrow no more shall our happiness blight.
TO MARY. Dear Mary those lips which once beamed with delight
Oft told me thy heart was sincere; And those eyes which still shine with such lovely blue
light, When I doubted were dimmed by a tear. Ah! 'twas then in love's early and unclouded morn,
When thy thoughts were so careless and gay; But an evening unlooked for has closed on that dawn,
And swept each sweet vision away. Now sorrow has banished that smile from thine eye,
A sad tear reigns alone in its place, And those love-breathing lips, now alas breathe a sigh,
As each tear trickles down thy sweet face. "Tis duty's stern voice that has caused all thy care,
And planted a thorn in thy breast; Which has driven each once brilliant hope to despair,
And wounded the heart't should have blest. Yet wipe off that damp mournful gem from thy cheek,
And think of thy sorrows no more, For the dark cloud of woe which thy sad looks bespeak,
Will, I trust dearest maid, soon be o’er.