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THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.
The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corei,*
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and for ever !
THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. - Mrs. Southey.
TREAD softly, - bow the head,
In reverent silence bow,-
Is passing now.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state ;
* The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.
That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
A dying head.
No mingling voices sound,
An infant wail alone; —
The parting groan.
O change! - O wondrous change !
Burst are the prison-bars; —
Beyond the stars!
O change, stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
Wakes with his God.
AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD. — Watts.
Sweet flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing
With an artless harmony;
TO THE EVENING WIND.
Who in leafy shadows sit,
And your wondrous structures build,
To nature's God your first devotions pay,
Ere you salute the rising day ;’T is he calls up the sun, and gives him every ray.
Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide,
Let the fierce glances of your eyes
Rebate their baleful fire ;
The volumes of your scaly gold ;
Proclaims your Maker kind and wise.
Insects and mites of mean degree,
In your innumerable forms
To despicable worms.
TO THE EVENING WIND. - Bryant.
SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their
spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea !
Nor I alone ; – a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his 'nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
Go, – but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
THE ERL KING.
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;
THE ERL KING.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
Who rideth so late through the night-wind wild ?
6 My son, why hidest thy face so shy? "
6 Come, lovely boy, come, go with me;
“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
6. Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me?
thee to sleep.”