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We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything;

We die,
As your hours do; and dry

Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

THE HERMIT. -- Beatlie.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And nought but the nightingale’s song in the grove; 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclined,

A hermit his nightly complaint thus began; Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resigned;

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

“ Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe,

Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay!

Mourn, sweetest companion ! man calls thee to

mourn ;

0, soothe hiin, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,

Full quickly they pass, but they never return ?

“ Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays ; But lately I marked when, majestic, on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendor again; But man's faded glory no change shall renew;

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !

“'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with

dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

0, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?"

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to

shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. “0, pity, great Father of light !" then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would nut wander from


Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst


And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn; So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn;



See Iruth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are

blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.



INTO the Silent Land !
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, O thither,
Into the Silent Land ?

Into the Silent Land !
To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions
Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band !
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!

O Land! 0 Land !
For all the broken-hearted
The mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed,
Into the Silent Land

ODE.- Collins.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's, wishes blest !
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck the hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there !

TO OUR ELDEST HEIR. --- Mrs. Henry Coleridge.

DEEM not that our eldest heir
Wins too much of love and care ;
What a parent's heart can spare,

Who can measure truly ?
Early crops were never found
To exhaust that fertile ground,
Still with riches 't will abound,

Ever springing newly.

See in yonder plot of flowers
How the tallest lily towers,
Catching beams and kindly showers

Which the heavens are shedding.
While the younger plants below
Less of sun and breezes know,
Till beyond the shade they grow,

High and richly spreading,



She that latest leaves the nest,
Little fledgling much carest,
Is not therefore loved the best,

Though the most protected;
Nor the gadding, daring child,
Oft reproved for antics wild,
Of our tenderness beguiled,

Or in thought neglected.

Gainst the islet's rocky shore
Waves are beating evermore,
Yet with blooms it's scattered o'er,

Decked in softest lustre;
Nature favors it no less
Than the guarded, still recess,
Where the birds for shelter press,

And the harebells cluster.

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EARTH, of man the bounteous mother,

Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother

Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,

Golden ear and clustered wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty

Is the royal task of man;
Man's a king, his throne is Duty,

Since his work on earth began.

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