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I thought how sweet to lay me down,
Where, gathered side by side,
They wait their resurrection-crown,
Ensured, since Jesus died.

Tho' there Death strains his stingless power,

And digs the narrow bed;

He may not touch the tenderest flower

That blooms above the dead.

Tho' earth-born damps pervade within,
And worms, unbidden, dare

Do their rude work on fruits of sin-
Hope's symbol blossoms there!

I've watched it, as the dew-drops fell,
In tearful beauty blow;

And smile the live-long day to tell,
How sweet the rest below!

Awhile may fade its painted coat,

As sinks the setting sun;

Bow its shut leaves, and seem to note

Its sands of being run;

But, as it feels the morning breath,

Among its petals play;

It shakes aside the dews of death,

And greets the rising day.

So droops the saint at set of sun;

So sleeps the waning night;

So hails, when Time's swift wheels have run, The resurrection-light.

Such be my lot!-I ask no show
To gild the dark vale's gloom ;
Nor golden pageantry to strew
A pathway to the tomb :

But one fond tear from those I love,
As dust to dust is given;

And one bright flower to bloom above,
And note my hope of heaven!

Thus, when He summons to my rest,
I yield me at His word;

My body to the earth's shut breast-
My spirit to my Lord!

POMPEII.

SONNET.

O THOU ! whose guilt-to other realms a sign-
Heav'n would not scorch to dust, nor earth entomb;
Fated once more 'neath conscious suns to shine,
Thy courts waked up from centuries of gloom;
That man may scan what stirred the Wrath divine,
Thy rest to break ere summoned to thy doom!
Is not thy Maker just? Shall vice in vain
Outrage His will, unchecked from age to age?
Woe's me! He speaks, and ruin pours like rain,
Kindling a flame nor tears nor prayers assuage;
And on this shore, and on His Jordan's plain
Are signs: He hath His will, and sin its wage!
O'er the sunk cities rolls the Dead Sea's wave,

And here, 'mid desert-shrines, behold Pompeii's grave!

THE BAY OF POZZUOLI.

THE SOUTH-WIND BLEW, AND WE CAME TO PUTEOLI.-ACTS XXVIII. 13.

FAIR sea! whose lines of rolling wave
Flash back the gladsome day,

And seem, as the broad beach they lave,

In murmurs soft to say,

Is there a wand'rer on my breast?

I'll bear him gently to his rest,

And soothe his cares away;

Here, where sweet flowers of thousand hues,
The welcome of their balm diffuse.'

Not thus,-not thus thine accents broke

On Paul's awaken'd ear,

When hoarse thy boiling waters spoke,
And mock'd the seaman's fear!
Thrice rose the sun, yet flung his light
Idly upon that triple night,

Wrought by thy wrestlings drear ;
Whilst on thy fickle breast of foam,
Man found nor refuge nor a home!

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