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DEATH THE LEVELLER.
Those verses are said to have "chilled the heart of Olc
Tue glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kül; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tamc but one another still :
Early or late,
They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds :
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb ;
LIKE to the falling of a star,
SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
For thou must die.
• Fields and Whipple, in their admirable Family Library of British Poets, add the following note: “This poem, of which there are nine imitations, is clanned for Francis Beaumont by some authorities
Whom while on earth each one did prize
But naught our tears avail, or crics ;
All soon or late in death shall sleep;
Nor living wight long time may keep The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
From the French of CHARLES DUKE OF ORLEANS.
Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.
The funeral sermon was on the text, " The Master is come, and
calleth for thee" (John xt. 28).
Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast ;-
But she hath made no answer, and the day
FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE
EROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV. SC. 2.
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages ;
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages :
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
To thee the reed is as the oak :
Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;
Thou hast finished joy and inoan :
learn the name of the author.
Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
That withers away to let others succeed ; Thy root is ever in its grave,
So the multitude comes, even those we behold, And thou must die. To repeat every talo that has often been told. Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, For we are the same our fathers have been ; A box where sweets compacted lie,
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; Thy musick shows ye have your closes,
We drink the same stream, we see the same siue And all inust die.
And run the same course our fathers have run. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ;
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did But, though the whole world turn to coal,
think; Then chiefly lives.
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did
shrink ; To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing. 0, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD ?
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ;
They scorned, — but the heart of the haughty is The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. They grieved, - but no wail from their slumbers He said to a friend, " I would give a great deal to know who wrote
will come ; it, but have never been able to ascertain." He did afterwards
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness
They died, ah ! they died ; we, things that
are now, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, And make in their dwelling a transient abode, Be scattered around, and together be laid ;
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimAs the young and the old, the low and the high, Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, The infant a mother attended and loved,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain : The mother that infant's affection who proved, And the smile and the tear, and the song and The father that mother and infant who blest,
the dirge, Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest. Still follow each other like surge upon surge. The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in
'T is the wink of an eye; 't is the draught of a
breath Shone beauty and pleasure, - hertriumphs are by ;
From the blossom of health to the paleness of And alike from the minds of the living erased
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;
William Knox The head of the king, that the sceptre hath
LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree, The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; Or like the dainty flower in May, The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up Or like the morning of the day, the steep;
Or like the sun, or like the shade, The beggar, who wandered in search of his Or like the gourd which Jonas had, bread,
E'en such is man ; whose threail is spun, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The farewell beam of Feeling past away ; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished
IF THOU WILT EASE THINE HEART.
If thou wilt ease thine heart
Then sleep, dear, sleep!
Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.
" Animula, vagula, blandula.“
But wilt thou cure thine heart
Then die, dear, die ! 'T is deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye;
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
LIFE! I know not what thou art,
And in this strange divorce,
A PICTURE OF DEATH.
FROM "THE GIAOUR."
He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is Aed, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose, that's there,
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,
From whence thy essence came,
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank, oblivious years the appointed
hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling los! 0, say what art thou, when no more thou 'rt theo
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
Life! we've been long together
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars! Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; And do our loves all perish with our frames?
'T is hard to part when friends are dear, | Do those that took their root and put forth buds, Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear :
And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Then steal away, give little warning, Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Choose thine own time;
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ? Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue clime
give speech, Bid me Good Morning.
And make it send forth winning harmonies,
Are these the body's accidents, no more!
| To live in it, and when that dies go out Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold,
Like the burnt taper's flame?
O listen, man ! Its silent meditations and glad hopes,
A voice within us speaks the startling word. Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ;
“Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss
Hymn it around our souls ; according harps, Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Call you not now together. Earnest talk Of morning sang together, sound forth still On what your children may be moves you not.
The song of our great immortality ; Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ;
Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, Not like to that in which ye rested once
The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Most happy, silence eloquent, when heart
Join in this solemn, universal song. With heart held speech, and your mysterious
O listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in frames,
From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight; Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat
Is floating in day's setting glories ; Night, Touched the soft notes of love.
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ;
A stillness deep, Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful Insensible, unheeding, folds you round, And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in ;
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, Away from all the living, here ye rest,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched In all the nearness of the narrow tomb,
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Yet feel ye not each other's presence now ;
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
Why is it that I linger round this tomb? But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? – They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms And put on those of light. They 're gone to dwell Of uncreated light have visited, and lived ? - In love, - their God's and angels'! Mutual love, Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne That bound them here, no longer needs a speech Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh For full communion ; nor sensations strong, Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain In glory ? — throne before which even now To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? - | By natures new impart themselves, though silent. Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense, Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, Thou awful,
Presence, they Affections sanctified, and the full glow
Of being, which expand and gladden one,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
RICHARD HENRY DANA.
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and | Into its furrows shall we all be cast, thought !
In the sure faith that we shall rise again Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Twofo:d, yet single, — this is love, this life ! Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Why call we, then, the square-built monument,
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, The upright column, and the low-laid slab Tokens of death, memorials of decay ?
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
With that of flowers which never bloomed on And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow !
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY From this green hillock, whither I had come
CHURCHYARD. Iu sorrow, thou art leading me in joy.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the How calm they sleep beneath the shade
sight, Who once were weary of the strife,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, And bent, like us, beneath the load
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Of human life!
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : The willow hangs with sheltering grace
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, And benediction o'er their sod,
The moping owl does to the moon complain And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
(Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease ; So deep the peace, I almost long
In still small accents whispering from the ground To lay me down.
The grateful earnest of eternal peace.] * Por, oh, it will be blest to sleep,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Nor dream, nor move, that silent night,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering Till wakened in immortal strength
heap, And heavenly light !
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, GOD'S-ACRE.
The swallow twittering from the straw-built I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
shed, The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just ;
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, It consecrates each grave within its walls,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; Comfort to those who in the grave have sown No children run to lisp their sire's return, The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. • Removed by the author from the original poem