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My hand I'll lay,-and dedicate them there,
-Faintly she smiled,—
They are demanded.-Must they be restored?-
Upon their dazzling hues?'-His eye grew stern,
In wantonness had cropped. My sons!-my sons!—
And prompt obedience warned me oft to be
More perfect with my God!'
To earth he fell,
She sighed in tone of tremulous tenderness,
'Yea!' said the sire,
Weep not for the Dead.-B. B. THATCHER. OH, lightly, lightly tread
Upon these early ashes, ye that weep
For her that slumbers in the dreamless sleep,
Hallow her humble tomb
With your kind sorrow, ye that knew her well, And climbed with her youth's brief but brilliant dell, 'Mid sunlight and fair bloom.
Glad voices whispered round,
As from the stars, bewildering harmonies,
With hopes like blossoms shone:
Oh, vainly these shall glow, and vainly wreathe
weep not for the dead
That in the glory of green youth do fall,
Weep not! They are at rest
Nor evermore shall come
To them the breath of envy, nor the rankling eye, Shall follow them, where side by side they lie Defenceless, noiseless, dumb.
Ay-though their memory's green,
In the fond heart, where love for them was born, With sorrow's silent dews, each eve, each morn, Be freshly kept, unseen―
Yet, weep not! They shall soar
As the freed eagle of the skies, that pined,
Rejoice! rejoice! How long
Should the faint spirit wrestle with its clay,
It mounts! It mounts! Oh, spread
For the enfranchised-and bright garlands bringBut weep not for the dead!
NIGHT is the time for rest;
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams,
The gay romance of life;
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far,
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Night is the time to weep;
memory, where sleep The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young, like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch;
Ön ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Like Brutus midst his slumbering host
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views
Descries, athwart the abyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Savior oft withdrew
So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign,
Escape from a Panther.-COOPER.
ELIZABETH TEMPLE and LOUISA had gained the summit of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their course, under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm; and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they had experienced in their ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk; and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called forth some simple expression of admiration.
In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers, that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly startled, and exclaimed--' Listen! there are the cries of a child on this mountain! Is there a clearing near us? or can some little one have strayed from its parents?'
'Such things frequently happen,' returned Louisa. 'Let us follow the sounds; it may be a wanderer, starving on the hill.'
Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impatient steps. More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and, pointing behind them, cried-Look at the dog!'
The advanced age of Brave had long before deprived him of his activity; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, either through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter; for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally