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Lifting all my thoughts above,
What if Death my sleep invade?
BEFORE READING THE HOLY
Son of God! to Thee I look,
To the memory of an interesting and amiable young relative, whose mortal career was suddenly closed at the early age of sixteen.
BY AN OFFICER OF THE LINE, AUTHOR OF “VISIONS OF SOLITUDE, A POEM,
It is not when the earthquake rends
Temple and palace, hall and tower; It is not when the whirlwind bends
The forest with unsparing power; Nor yet when pestilence, with breath
Of vengeance, walketh to and fro,
That most we hear thy voic, O Death!
Proclaim of guilty man the woe:Oft thy still voice more loud may seem, When thou dost chase some airy dream,
'Tis sad,-most sad, the wreck to view
Of hall, and palace, -fortress,-fane; To see the wrathful tempest strew
The forest round—its strength in vain; Or walk the city's silent ways,
When .baleful vapours load the air, And mark each brow, on which we gaze,
Sealed with the signet of despair: Yet then-e'en then—may Terror's chill Freeze the heart's fount,-deep, dark, and still.
that oft without a tear Have looked upon the battle-field, Perchance o'er perished Beauty's bier
The tribute-drop of grief may yield. And bosoms that have calmly heaved
Amid the shipwreck's stormy hour, May feel the pang of heart bereaved,
In chamber lone, or silent bower, Where dwelt young genius, now no more A dweller on Life's rugged shore.
And well may I, though crowding years
Have left their traces on my brow; And many a joy that bright appears
To youth, has flitted past me now;
may I mourn another string,
As, down Time's troubled waters driven,
Oh! what avails it? She was young,
And gay, and graceful as the fawn, That ere the early lark has sung
Bounds joyous o'er the dewy lawn: Nor borrowed charms nor studied art
Were hers,-yet well the way she knew Of access to each kindred heart;
And closely, and more closely drew The friends around her, who, in vain, May seek to find her like again.
Genius she had : and solemn themes
Familiar to her mind were grown, Mingling amid Life's beauteous dreams,
Ere the cold blast of Care had blown: Bright was her eye, and firm her tread,-
Upon her cheek the flush of health ; Nor hers of pallid want the dread,
Nor hers the sordid pride of wealth: Humble, though cherished, -blithe, yet mild, She bloomed,-a grey-haired father's child.
But he has wept above her tomb:
I've seen its heavy portals close:
And withered now is all her bloom;
And cold she lies in Death's repose. No more those accents shall I hear,
Once tuneful echoes of the lyre;
And lightly touch the trembling wire,
Yet lingers hope: and though the grave
Press heavy on her gentle breast, Through Him who mighty is to save,
We trace the spirit to its rest: And, exiles still below the skies,
By faith we hail the hasting time, When from the yawning earth shall rise
The buried dead, to soar sublime,And triumph in the realms above, Raised by Messiah's wondrous love.
• THY WILL BE DONE.”
'Tis hard, when we are sick and poor,
say, “O Lord! Thy will be done.”