Was he of high or low degree?
Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lowly cot,
And from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread?

Say, died he ripe and full of years,
Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld,

When sound was silence to his ears
And the dim eye-ball sight withheld,
Like a ripe apple falling down
Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown ;

When all the friends that bless'd his prime
Were vanish'd like a morning dream,-
Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time,
And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;

Passing away all silently,

Like snow-flakes melting in the sea.

Or, 'mid the summer of his years,

When round him press'd his children young, When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears And anguish dwelt on every tongue,

Was he cut off, and left behind

A widow'd wife scarce half resigned?

Perhaps he perished for the faith,

One of that persecuted band

Who suffer'd tortures, bonds, and death, To free from mental thrall the land; And, toiling for the martyr's fame, Espoused his fate, nor found a name?

Say, was he one to science blind,
A groper in earth's dungeon dark?—
Or one whose bold aspiring mind

Did in the fair creation mark

The Maker's hand, and kept his soul
Free from this grovelling world's control?

Hush, wild surmise! 'tis vain, 'tis vain! The summer flowers in beauty blow, And sighs the wind, and floods the rain, O'er some old bones that rot below; No other record can we trace

Of fame or fortune, rank or race!

Then what is life, when thus we see
No trace remains of life's career?
Mortal, whoe'er thou art, for thee

A moral lesson gloweth here: Putt'st thou in aught of earth thy trust? "Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust.

What doth it matter then if thus

Without a stone, without a name To impotently herald us,

We float not on the breath of fame, But, like the dew-drop from the flower, Pass, after glittering an hour,—

Since soul decays not: freed from earth
And earthly coils, it bursts away.
Receiving a celestial birth,

And spurning off its bonds of clay,
It soars and seeks another sphere,
And blooms through heaven's eternal year.

Do good shun evil. Live not thou

As if at death thy being died; Nor error's siren voice allow

To draw thy steps from truth aside. Look to thy journey's end,—the grave; And trust in Him whose arm can save.

Dying yet Libing.

HE died, yet is not dead!

Ye saw a daisy on her tomb:

It bloomed to die-she died to bloom;

Her summer hath not sped.

She died, yet is not dead!

Ye saw her jewels all unset;

But God let fall a coronet

To crown her ransomed head.

She died, yet is not dead!

Ye saw her gazing toward a sky

Whose lights are shut from mortal eye :

She lingered, yearned, and fled.

She died, yet is not dead!

Go ye

Through pearly gate, on golden street, She went her way with shining feet : and thither tread!

THEODORE TILTON.

The Close of the Year.

NOTHER year! another year!

The unceasing rush of time sweeps on;
Whelmed in its surges, disappear
Man's hopes and fears, for ever gone!

Oh, no forbear that idle tale!

The hour demands another strain,— Demands high thought that cannot quail, And strength to conquer and retain.

"Tis midnight from the dark-blue sky,
The stars, which now look down on earth,
Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,
And given to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall,

And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, The dwellers on this altered ball

May still behold them glorious there.

Shine on! shine on! With you I tread
The march of ages: orbs of light,
A last eclipse o'er you may spread ;

To me, to me, there comes no night.

Oh, what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to th' immortal dead,
That a few hairs are turning gray,
Or one more year of life has fled!

Swift years! But teach me how to bear,
To feel and act with strength and skill,

To reason wisely, nobly dare,—

And speed your courses as ye will!

When life's meridian toils are done,

How calm, how rich the twilight glow,

The morning twilight of a sun

Which shines not here on things below.