In rosy inspiration, so that wide

The nations gazed and loved the beauteous light.
Death's sudden earthquake now has laid thee low,
And myriad eyes look tow'rd the vacant spot
And ache and ache to gaze on nothingness.

SACRED POEMS.

THE LAST DAY.

STILL Spring and summer, night and day, Wheel round and round in ceaseless sway, Ringing Creation's chime;

The centuries, like beacons hung,

Mark out the forward march along
The great highway of Time.

The world rolls onward as of old,
With limbs of iron, heart of gold,

And soul of sordid treasure;

Each strives to win his favourite game,— The worldling plays for wealth or fame,

The profligate for pleasure.

Who, gazing on the unclouded sky,

Dreams that the thunder-cloud is nigh, The quivering lightning near?

Calmly the brilliant day is done,

And seems to say,

"To-morrow's sun

As bright shall reappear."

Behold, uprising from the West,

A little cloud unfolds its breast,

And swells before the blast;

And so, another in the sky

Steals onward, like a hostile spy,
Each angrier than the last.

Beneath yon elm the sleeper's form
Rests weary, dreamless of the storm,
Now gather'd o'er his head.

The lightning rends the stately tree;
The thunder peals his doom; and he

Is number'd with the dead.