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We should not mourn the closing flow'r
Can never set.
The Cast-away Ship.
Her mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand ; And weeping eyes are on the main
Until its verge she wanders o'er ;But from that hour of parting pain,
Oh! she was never heard of more!
When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation, doom'd to flee,
Of racking cloud and rolling sea ?
Went drifting on a fatal shore ?
Is dark !-she ne'er was heard of more !
The moon hath twelve times changed her form,
From glowing orb to crescent wan,
Since from her port that ship hath gone ;
And though we know that all is o'er,
hath seen-no tongue can tell
Oh! were her tale of sorrow known,
'Twere something to the broken heart;
of doubt would then be gone,
By which her doom we may explore ;
And ne'er was seen or heard of more!
The Philosopher's Scales.
What were they ?-you ask: you shall presently see
The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire,
Next time he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had made for a weight; And though clad in armour from sandals to crown, The hero rose up and the garment went down.
A long row of alms-houses, amply endow'd By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropp'd into the chest; Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a
By further experiments (no matter how) He found that ten chariots weigh'd less than one plough. A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail,
A lord and a lady went up at full sail,
At last the whole world was bowl'd in at the grate, With the soul of a beggar to serve as a weight; When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roofWhile the scale with the soul in't so mightily fell, That it jerk'd the philosopher out of his cell.
The Shadow on the Sun-Dial.
Upon yon dial-stone
An silence more sublime
Than if the thunders of the spheres
Day is the time for toil;
In beauty fading fast
Before the ceaseless shade,
Coeval with the sun