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on a plain funeral-stone, without ornament, and below envy. There shall tomb stand among the rest as a fresh monument of the frailty of nature and the end of time. It is possible some friendly foot may now and then visit the place of my repose, and some tender eye may bedew the cold memorial with a tear: one or other of
my quaintance may possibly attend there to learn the silent lecture of mortality from my gravestone, which my lips are now preaching aloud to the world : and should love and sorrow reach so far, perhaps, while his soul is melting in his eyelids, and his voice scarce finds an utterance, he will point with his finger, and shew his companions the month and the day of my decease. O that solemn, that awful day, which shall finish my appointed time on earth, and put a full period to all the designs of my heart, and all the labours of my tongue and pen!
Think, O my soul, that while friends and strangers are engaged on that spot, and reading the date of thy departure hence, thou wilt be fixed under a decisive and unchangeable sentence, rejoicing in the rewards of time well improved, or suffering the long sorrows which shall attend the abuse of it, in an unknown world of happiness or misery.
WHICH THINGS ARE AS A SHADOW.
I saw a stream, whose waves were bright
With morning's dazzling sheen:
“How like that tide,"
My spirit sighed,
The clouds dispersed,—the glorious west
Was bright with closing day: And on the river's peaceful breast Shone forth the sunset ray:
My spirit caught
The soothing thought-
I saw a tree, with ripening fruit,
And shady foliage crowned'; But ah! an axe was at its root, And felled it to the ground :
Well might that tree
Recall to me
A fire consumed it: but I saw,
Its smoke ascend on high,
A shadowy type, beheld with awe,
But, from the grave,
Shall rise to crave, A home above the sky.
“Passing away " is written on the world and all the world contains.
It is written on the rose,
In its glory's full array;
“ Passing away."
It is written on the skies
Of the soft blue summer's day:
It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play, And on lighter things than these,
It is written on the brow,
Where the spirit's ardent ray
Alas! that there decay
Should claim from love a part,
“Passing away." Friends! friends! O! shall we meet
Wbere the spoiler finds no prey; Where lovely things and sweet
“Pass not away!”
O! if this
“To pass away!"
SUCH THINGS WERE.
Time flies when it should linger most,
In happy hours we often say,
We mourn the looks so truly dear,
walk some spot is seen
say in sorrow—“Such things were."
REFLECTIONS ON THE SPRING.
THERE cannot be a more pleasing object of contemplation, than the change of the seasons, which produces a renovation of nature, and gives a new appearance to the world, by making the dreary and dismal scenes of winter give place to the exhilarating gaiety of spring; which affords, to a mind free from corroding care and boisterous passion, an unexhausted source of innocent enjoyments. The wariety of pleasing prospects, and delightful scenes, formed by hills and dales, by fields and woods; the warbling of birds, whose cheerful notes display reviving joy; the satisfaction dis