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Lo the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, Am I awake? or is itcan it be
Bere-headed served the Captive in his tent! An idle dream? Nightly it visits me!
Young
B in the groves of Academe,

-That strain," she cries, “as from the water rose
Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream; Now near and nearer through the shade it flows!
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum, Now sinks departing-sweetest in its close!"
Dreaming old dreams-a joy for years to come; No casement gleams; no Juliet, like the day,
Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane ;

Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay. Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain:(12) Still, like aërial music heard from far, And Milton's self (13) (at that thrice-honored name Nightly it rises with the evening-star. Well may we glow--as men, we share his fame)— —“She loves another! Love was in that sigh!" And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye, On the cold ground he throws himself to die. Planning he knows not what that shall not die! Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving.

Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, Who wish are fearful ; who suspect, believing. Beware the poison in the cup of gold,

-And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high, Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now! (15) As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky! She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause; But every step is on enchanted ground;

Nor yet-nor yet her hand from his withdraws, Danger thou lovest, and Danger haunts thee round. But by some secret Power surprised, subdued Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side ;

side. |(Ah how resist? Nor would she if she could),

Falls on his neck as half unconscious where, Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? Draws, and cries ho; and, where the sun-beams fall,

Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there.

Then come those full confidings of the past; At his own shadow thrusts along the wall?

| All sunshine now where all was overcast. Who dances without music; and anon

Then do they wander till the day is gone, Sings like the lark—then sighs as woe-begone,

Lost in each other; and when Night steals on, And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave, Glides in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave?

Covering them round, how sweet her accents are !

Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far, Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow :

Far above singing But soon nothing stirs Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now

| To break the silence-Joy like his, like hers, A ship, & whale, change not so fast as thou.

Deals not in words: and now the shadows close, He hears me not_Those sighs were from the heart;

Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part.

Less and less earthly! As departs the day He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere,

| All that was mortal seems to melt away, With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear,

Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given, Lie at her feet, and on her slipper swear

She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven! That none were half so faultless, half so fair,

Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the hours Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,

Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers A banish'd man, flying when none are near;

Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the least And writes on every tree, and lingers long

Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, Where inost the nightingale repeats her song;

Known by her laugh that will not be suppress'd Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove,

Then before All they stand-the holy vow Delights to syllable the names we love.

And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, Two on his steps attend, in motley clad;

Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad;

And every tear kiss'd off as soon as shed, Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his capand bells, His house she enters—there to be a light, And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. Shining within, when all without is night: To Hope he listens, wandering without measure la guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, Through sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure; Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing, And, if to Fear but for a weary mile,

Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile.

Back from a world we love, alas, too long, At length he goes—a Pilgrim to the Shrine, To fire-side happiness, to hours of ease, And for a relie would a world resign!

Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fall

How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind What though the least, Love consecrates them all! To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse; Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse

Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. At early matins ('t was at matin-time (14)

The soul of music slumbers in the shell, That first he saw and sicken'd in his prime), Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold, And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour Plays with young hearts that will not be controllid. A thousand melodies unheard before! (16)

"Absence from Thoe---as self from self it seems!” Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise Scaled is the garden-wall ! and lo, her beams Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy, His well-known form along the terrace stealing. With smiles how sweet, how full of love and jo -Oh, ere in sight he came, 't was his to thrill To meet him coming ; theirs through every year A heart that loved him though in secret still. Pure transports, such as each to each endear!

And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness Their halls with gladness. She, when all are still, That would in vain the starting tear repress. Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie,

Such grief was ours—it seems but yesterdayIn sleep how beautiful! He, when the sky

When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony,

| 'T was thine, Maria, thine without a sigh When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share At midnight in a Sister's arms to die! His kisses, and with gentle violence there

Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame, Break in upon a dream not half so fair,

And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! Up to the hill-top leads their little feet;

And, when recall'd to join the blest above, Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet

| Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear

Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ;

When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers, Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,

Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee ; That gave him back his words of pleasantry

And now I write-what thou shalt never see! When the House stood, no merrier man than he!

At length the Father, vain his power to save, And, as they wander with a keen delight,

Follows his child in silence to the grave, If but a leve et catch their quicker sight

(That child how cherish'd, whom he would not give, Down a green alley, or a squirrel then

Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live !) Climb the gnarlid oak, and look and climb again,

Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade If but a moth Alit by, an acorn fall,

Scatters the earth as “dust to dust” is said, He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all;

Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief These with unequal footsteps following fast,

Consoling others in that hour of griet, These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.

And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. And the swart sea-man, sailing far below,

—But hark, the din of arms! no time for sorrow Not undelighted watch the morning ray

To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow! Purpling the orient-ill it breaks away,

One parting pang, and then—and then I fly, And burns and blazes into glorious day!

Fly to the field, to triumph or to die But happier still is he who bends to trace

He goes, and Night comes as it never came! (17) That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face;

With shrieks of horror and a vault of flame! The burst, the glow, the animating strife,

And lo! when morning mocks the desolate, The thoughts and passions stirring into life;

Red runs the river by; and at the gate, The forming utterance, the inquiring glance,

Breathless a horse without his rider stands! The giant waking from his ten-fold trance,

But hush a shout from the victorious bands! Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,

And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored! And all is light within the trembling frame! One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword;

What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all Prevail in turn, Joy most; and through the year Spring to prepare the soldier's festival; Tempering the ardent, urging night and day While She besi-loved, till then forsaken kever, Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever' Praising each highly-from a wish to raise

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, Their merits to the level of his Praise.

Days of domestic peace-by him who plays Onward in their observing sight he moves, On the great stage how uneventful thought; Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves !

Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, Their sacred presence who shall dare profane?

A thousand incidents that stir the mind
Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain ? To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind!
He lives a model in his life to show,

Such as the heart delights in--and records
That, when he dies and through the world they go, Within how silently-in more than words !
Some men may pause and say, when some admire, A Holiday- the frugal banquet spread
They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!" on the fresh herbage near the fountain-head

But Man is born to suffer. On the door With quips and cranks-what time the wood-lark Sickness has set her mark; and now no more

there Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, As of a mother singing to her child.

What time the king-fisher sits perch'd below, All now in anguish from that room retire,

Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow: Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, A Wake-the booths whitening the village-green, And Innocence breathes contagion-all but ono, Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen; But she who gave it birth—from her alone , Sign beyond sign in close array unfurld, The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, Picturing at large the wonders of the world; And through the day, that with its dreary light And far and wide, over the vicar's pale, Comes unregarded, she sits silent by

Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale, Watching the changes with her anxious eye: All, all abroad, and music in the gale: While they without, listening below, above, A Wedding-dance-a dance into the night (Who but in sorrow know how much they love ?) On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light; From every little noise catch hope and fear, When the young bride receives the promised dower, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, | And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower :

A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,

Down by the beech-wood side he turn'd away :(Who would be rich while One was wanting bread!) And now behold him in an evil day When all are emulous to bring relief,

Serving the State again—not as before, And tears are falling fast-but not for grief : Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door, A Walk in Spring-Grattan, like those with thee, But in the Senate : and (though round him fly By the heath-side (who had not envied me?) The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry, When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, With honest dignity, with manly sense, Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon; And every charm of natural eloquence, And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise, Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause, 200 Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise, The first, the foremost to obey the laws, Thou wouldst call up and question.

The last to brook oppression. On he moves,

Graver things Careless of blame while his own heart approves, Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings Careless of ruin-(* For the general good Its holy office; and the sabbath-bell,

"T is not the first time I shall shed my blood.") That over wood and wild and mountain-dell On through that gate misnained, (21) through which Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy

before With sounds most musical, most melancholy, Went Sidney, Russel, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues

On into twilight within walls of stone,
The pathway leading through the aged yews, Then to the place of trial ; (22) and alone, (23)
Nor unattended; and, when all are there,

Alone before his judges in array
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, Stands for his life: there, on that awful day,
That House with many a funeral-garland hung (18) Counsel of friends—all human help denied
Of virgin-white-memorials of the young,

All but from her who sits the pen to guide,
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing, Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russel's side
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing; Under the Judgment-scat, (24)—But guilty men
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love, Triumph not always. To his hearth again,
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above, Again with honor to his hearth restored,
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven-

Lo, in the accustom'd chair and at the board, Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven? Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their Nor at the fragrant hour-at early dawn

claim, Under the elm-tree on his level lawn,

(The lowliest servant calling by his name) Or in his porch is he less duly found,

He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all,
When they that cry for Justice gather round, All met as at a holy festival !
And in that cry her sacred voice is drown'd;

On the day destined for his funeral !
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate,

Lo, there the Friend, who entering where he lay Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate.

Breathed in his drowsy ear, “Away, away! Heald at his touch, the wounds of discord close; Take thou my cloak—Nay, start not, but obey And they return as friends, that came as foes. Take it and leave me.” And the blushing Maid,

Thus, while the world but claims its proper part, Who through the streets as through a desert stray'd; Oft in the head but never in the heart,

And, when her dear, dear Father pass'd along, His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling Would not be held—but, bursting through the throng, That home-felt joy all other joys excelling. | Halberd and battle-axe-kiss'd him o'er and o'er; Sick of the crowd, when enters he-nor then Then turn'd and went-then sought him as before, Forgets the cold indifference of men ?

Believing she should see his face no more! -Soon through the gadding vine (19) the sun looks in, And oh, how changed at once-no heroine here, And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin.

But a weak woman worn with grief and fear, Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,

Her darling Mother! 'T was but now she smiled Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong And now she weeps upon her weeping child ! Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen, 1-But who sits by, her only wish below Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green; At length fulfillid-and now prepared to go ? And in from far a school-boy's letter flies,

His hands on hers—as through the mists of night Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) She gazes on him with imperfect sight; That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not ?) Her glory now, as ever her delight! (25) Born with the day and with the day forgot ; To her, methinks, a second Youth is given; Its ample page various as human life,

The light upon her face a light from Heaven' The pomp, the woe, the bustle and the strife! An hour like this is worth a thousand pass'd

But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plow In pomp or ease-T is present to the last! Met and solicited, behold him now

Years glide away untold—'T is still the same! Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, As fresh, as fair as on the day it came! The sphere that Wisdom loves—and Virtue too, And now once more where most he loved to be, She who subsists not on the vain applause

In his own fields-breathing tranquillityMisjudging man now gives and now withdraws. We hail him—not less happy, Fox, than thee!

Twas morn-the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung Thee at St. Anne's so soon of care beguiled,
As from his lips the slow consent was wrung; Playful, sincere, and artless as a child!
As from the glebe his fathers tillid of old,

Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's-nest on the spray The plow they guided in an age of gold,

|Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.

How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all, With thee conversing in thy loved retreat,

So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, I saw the sun go down Ah, then 't was thine And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears;Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,

So soon to hover round her full of fears, Shakspeare's or Dryden's through the chequer'd And with assurance sweet her soul revive shade

In child-birth-when a mother's love is most alive. Borne in thy hand behind thee as we stray'd;

No, 't is not here that Solitude is known. And where we sate (and many a halt we made)

Through the wide world he only is alone To read there with a fervor all thy own,

Who lives not for another. Come what will. And in thy grand and melancholy tone,

The generous man has his companion still; Some splendid passage not to thee unknown,

The cricket on his hearth; the buzzing fly Fit theme for long discourse—Thy bell has tollid!

That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, -But in thy place among us we behold

Still with its note of gladness passes by : One who resembles thee.

And, in an iron cage condemn'd to dwell, 'Tis the sixth hour.

The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, The village-clock strikes from the distant tower.

He feeds his spider-happier at the worst
The plowman leaves the field ; the traveller hears,

Than he at large who in himself is curst.
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears
Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west

O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind (27) Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. Streams from the depth of ages on mankind,

Streams like the day-who, angel-like, hast shed And such, his labor done, the calm He knows,

Thy full effulgence on the hoary head, Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round him glows

Speaking in Cato's venerable voice, An atmosphere that brightens to the last ;

“ Look up, and faint not—faint not, but rejoice! The light, that shines, reflected from the Past,

From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now -And from the Future too! Active in Thought

Stamp'd with its signet that ingenuous brow; Among old books, old friends, and not unsought

And, 'mid his old hereditary trees, By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours,

Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sees When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers,

| His children's children playing round his knees : He muses, turning up the idle weed;

Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung, Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead

When side by side the archer's bows are strung; Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,

His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, The ladder resting on the orchard-bough,

Envying no more the young their energies Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,

Than they an old man when his words are wise ; The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,

His a delight how pure-without alloy ; 'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy! At night, when all, assembling round the fire, Now in their turn assisting, they repay Closer and closer draw till they retire,

The anxious cares of many and many a day; A tale is told of India or Japan,

And now by those he loves relieved, restored, Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan,

His very wants and weaknesses afford
What time wild Nature revellid unrestrain'd,

A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks,
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reign'd : Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks,
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale

While they look up! Their questions, their rephes, Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas

Gladdening his spirit: and, his theme the past, Immovable for ever there to freeze!

How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast, Or some great caravan, from well to well

And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old ? Winding as darkness on the desert fell,

False are the tales that in the World are told !)
In their long march, such as the Prophet bids, Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end ;
To Mecca from the land of Pyramids,

Like one discoursing of an absont friend.
And in an instant lost-a hollow wave
Of burning sand their everlasting grave -

But there are moments which he calls his own

1 Then, never less alone than when alone Now the scene shifts to Venice—to a square , Glittering with light, all nations masking there,

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, With light reflected on the tremulous tide,

Loved and still loves—not dead-but gone before, Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,

He gathers round him; and revives at will Answering the jest, the song on every side;

Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment stillTo Naples next-and at the crowded gate,

That come not now at dreary intervals Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait,

But where a light as from the Blessed falls, Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, (26)

A light such guests bring ever-pure and holyVesuvius blazing like a World on fire

Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy, Then, at a sign that never was forgot,

--Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not?)

To live with others than to think on them! From lute or organ! "T is at parting given,

And now behold him up the hill ascending, That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven; Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending; Young voices mingling, as it floats along,

Sustain'd, excited, till his course is run, In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song!

By deeds of virtue done or to be done.

When on his couch he sinks at length to rest, to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, Those by his counsel saved, his power redress'd, that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the Those by the World shunn'd ever as unblest, instant. He takes the account of the rich man, and At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. He holds & But whom he sought out, sitting desolate,

glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes Come and stand round the widow with her child, them see therein their deformity; and they acAs when she first forgot her tears and smiled! knowledge it. They, who watch by him, see not; but he sees, O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none Sees and exults-Were ever dreams like these ? could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have They, who watch by him, hear not; but he hears, dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears! Alattered, thou only hast cast out and despised : thou

Tis past! That hand we grasp'd, alas, in vain! hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all Nor shall we look upon his face again!

the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered But to his closing eyes, for all were there,

it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet. Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year,

RALEIGE We shall remember with a fond delight

Note 3, page 11, col. 2. The words so precious which we heard to-night;

Through the dim curtains of Futurity. His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,

Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what Like setting suns or music at the close!

temper Milton surveyed the silent progress of his Then was the drama ended. Not till then,

work, and marked his reputation stealing its way in a So full of chance and change the lives of men, kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little From pain, from grief, and all that we endure, disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own He slept in peace-say rather soar'd to Heaven, merit with steady consciousness, and waiting, without Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 't is given

impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and the imIn his right hand to hold the golden key

partiality of a future generation.-JOHNSON. That opes the portals of Eternity. -When by a good man's grave I muse alone,

After line 57, col. 2, in the MS. Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;

O'er place and time we triumph ; on we go, Like those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night,

Ranging in thought the realms above, below;

Yet, ah, how little of ourselves we know ! Who sate and watch'd in raiment heavenly-bright;

And why the heart beats on, or how the brain And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,

Says to the foot, 'Now move, now rest again,' Says, pointing upward, that he is not here,

From age to age we search, and search in vain. That he is risen!

Note 4, page 12, col. 1.
But the day is spent;

like the stone And stars are kindling in the firmament,

That sheds awhile a lustre all its own. To us how silent-though like ours perchance

See “ Observations on a diamond that shines in the Busy and full of life and circumstance;

dark.”-Boyle's Works, i, 789. Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few;

Note 5, page 12, col. 1. And, as the sun goes rounda sun not ours

Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth. While from her lap another Nature showers

Cicero, in his Essay De Senectute, has drawn his Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, images from the better walks of life ; and Shakspeare, Think on themselves, within, without inquire; in his Seven Ages, has done so too. But Shakspeare At distance dwell on all that passes there,

treats his subject satirically; Cicero as a Philosopher. All that their world reveals of good and fair; In the venerable portrait of Cato we discover no And, as they wander, picturing things, like me, traces of the lean and slippered pantaloon.” Not as they are, but as they ought to be,

Every object has a bright and a dark side; and I Trace out the Journey through their little Day, have endeavored to look at things as Cicero has done. And fondly dream an idle hour away.

By some however I may be thought to have followed too much my own dream of happiness; and in such a dream indeed I have often passed a solitary hour.

It was castle-building once; now it is no longer so. NOTES.

But whoever would try to realize it, would not

perhaps repent of his endeavor.
Note 1, page 11, col. 2.

Note 6, page 12, col. 1.
Our pathway leads but to a precipice.

The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared.
See Bossuet, Sermon sur la Résurrection.

A Persian Poet has left us a beautiful thought on

this subject, which the reader, if he has not met with Note 2, page 11, col. 2.

it, will be glad to know, and, if he has, to remember. We fly; no resting for the foot we find.

Thee on thy mother's knoes, a new-born child,

In tears we saw, when all around thee smiled. "I have considered,” says Solomon, “all the works

So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, that are under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and Smiles may be thine, when all around thee weep. Feration of spirit.” But who believes it, till Death tells For my version I am in a great measure indebted it us? It is Death alone that can suddenly make man to Sir William Jones.

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