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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!"

1

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!

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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