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VI.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

FROM JOB.

I.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveil'd-

Deep sleep came down on ev'ry eye save mine
And there it stood,-all formless but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:

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"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"

ON THE DEATH

OF

SIR PETER PARKER, BART.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;

But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:

In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!

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A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue :
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ;

And early valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

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