On my happy solitude Must the vision still intrude? Hark! the solemn winds reply: Thou shalt be well pleased to go. MRS. OGILVIE. The Hour of Death. L EAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine. THE HOUR OF DEATH. 281 Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. A Where is He? ND where is he? Not by the side Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend! That form beloved he marks no more; Those scenes admired no more shall seeThose scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair-but where is he? No, no, the radiance is not dim His was the pomp, the crowded hall! His riches, honors, pleasures, all Desire could frame; but where are they? And he,- -as some tall rock that stands Protected by the circling sea,— Surrounded by admiring bands, Seemed proudly strong-and where is he? The churchyard bears an added stone, HENRY NEELE. Our very hopes belied our fears, We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came, dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had Another morn than ours. THOMAS HOOD. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, THE The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, |