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How sweet were leisure! could it yield no more

Than 'mid that wave-washed churchyard to recline,
From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine;

Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar

Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, Soothed by th' unseen river's gentle roar.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;

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So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

THE author of "The World Before the Flood," "Greenland," "The Pelican Island," &c., is the son of a Moravian clergyman, and was born at Irvine, in Scotland, on the 4th of November, 1771. For many years he was editor of a newspaper in Sheffield, where he is still living, regarded by all who know him with respect and affection. He is perhaps the best of the religious poets of England who have written since the time of Cowper.

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a rest for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head

And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

For Misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild ;
I perish ;-O my mother earth!
Take home thy child!

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined

Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.

Hark!―a strange sound affrights mine ear,
My pulse-my brain runs wild,-I rave;
Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
"I am the grave!

"The grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
Oh, listen!--I will speak no more :
Be silent, Pride!

"Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair?

"Do foul misdeeds of former times

Wring with remorse thy guilty breast,

And ghosts of unforgiven crimes

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Murder thy rest?

'Lashed by the furies of the mind,

From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee;

Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find

A friend in me.

"By all the terrors of the tomb,

Beyond the power of tongue to tell!

By the dread secrets of the womb,
By death and hell!

"I charge thee, live!-repent and pray :
In dust thine infamy deplore,
There yet is mercy;-go thy way

And sin no more.

"Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known

The joy of innocent delights?

Endearing days forever flown,

And tranquil nights?

"Oh! live; and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past;
Rely on heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.

"Art thou a wanderer? Hast thou seen

O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou been— Misfortune's mark?

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Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam,
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.

"To friendship didst thou trust thy fame,
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast to aim
A surer blow?

"Live! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told; Thou hast mistaken solid dross

For Friendship's gold.

"Go seek that treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound,
With heavenly balm.

"In woman hast thou placed thy bliss,
And did the fair one faithless prove?
Hath she betrayed thee with a kiss,
And sold thy love?

"Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire:
Too often Love's insidious dart
Thrills the fond soul with sweet desire,
But kills the heart.

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A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,

A brighter Maiden's virtuous charms! Blessed shalt thou be, supremely blessed, In Beauty's arms.

"Whate'er thou art, whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly,-kiss the rod,
And, in thy chastening sorrows, see
The hand of God.

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'A bruised reed He will not break; Afflictions all his children feel:

He wounds them for his mercy's sake ;He wounds to heal!

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'Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore:

'Tis done! Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more.

"Now, traveller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.

"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;

And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,

"The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A spark of day!

"The sun is but a spark of fire,

A transient meteor of the sky:

The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die !"

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