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I love to wake and gaze upon

Those sparkling plains of night's deep blue,
But oh, beyond them to their Maker's throne!
Soar thou, my soul; and there enraptur'd view
Unnumber'd systems roll, and wonders ever new!



ETERNITY, what art thou then, dread object of our fears,

The thought of which blanches the cheek, and dims the eye with tears?
-A fathomless abyss, where the helpless soul is lost,

A shoreless ocean on whose tide the found'ring bark is tost;
A shadow of the past perhaps—a journey where no home
Awaits to greet the traveller, who must ever, ever roam:
A pilgrimage without a shrine-a race without a goal-
Uncertainty without a hope, to light the cheerless soul!

Such Nature's fears would picture forth, the dread untried-unknown;
But better light on Christians shines from their Emmanuel's throne:
For He tells them, that to them He is the truth, the life, the way,
And that those souls can ne'er be lost who on His precepts stay.
The sea without a shore, to them o'erflows with love divine,
On which the rays of heavenly peace for ever brightly shine;
Has not our Master promised us, ere long, again to come,
And take us to abodes prepar'd in His own heav'nly home?
And when that blessed goal attain'd, at Jesus' feet we bow,
With wreaths of ever-during green, to crown the Conqu'ror's brow?
Then, Christian, hail eternity! for O! a Saviour's love

Is there as here thy portion; and as thou dost onward move
From one degree of bliss, to more, while endless ages roll,

Thou'lt find its pleasures overflow thy still enlarging soul,

And thou'lt think its years are all too few to sing the matchless grace Of Him, who gives thee in His own eternity a place.

Yes-praise be ours, if gospel truth dispel our nature's night,

Banish our fears, and bring an immortality to light!



OH! weep not for the early dead,
Who die in life's young infancy;
More tranquil is their lowly bed

Than earthly lot can ever be.

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The stars gleam down upon their graves,
And gay bright flowers above them grow,
The pensive willow o'er them waves,

And gentle zephyrs near them blow.

But while the rays of eve's sweet star
Light on the clods they lie beneath;
Theirs is a quiet, sweeter far

Than stars can know, or zephyrs breathe.

The storm may howl, the tempest sweep
Around their tomb, and earth may shake;

But theirs is slumber far too deep,
For storms or tempests to awake.

The withering touch of mortal care
May pale the cheek and dim the eye;-
Unknown, unfelt, it comes not where
The early dead in silence lie.

They sleep in peace, their early doom

Hath saved from thousand earth-born woes,

And soon they'll leave the quiet tomb,
For heaven's more lasting deep repose.

Then weep not for the early dead

Who die in life's young infancy;

More tranquil is their lowly bed,
Than earthly lot can ever be.



Like the latest left of the battle-spears,
In their ancient strength they stand;
And they tell us still of the sylvan years
When the forests filled the land;
Ere ever a hunter tracked the wood,
Or mariner plough'd the seas,
But the isles were green in the solitude
Of their old primeval Trees.

J. P. S.

They have survived the Druid's faith,

And the Roman eagle's fall,

And the thrilling blast of the bugle's breath
From the Norman's nightly hall;

But the sun shines bright, and the showers descend,
And the wild bird's home is made,
Where the ancient giants still extend
The green of their summer shade.
We have seen our early winters hang

Their pearls on each leafless bough,
And greeted the buds of the waking spring
With a joy we know not now;

For life hath its winters cold and hoar,
But their frosts can form no gem;

And the spring may breathe on our hearts no more,

But it still returns to them.

They are waving o'er our hamlet roofs,

They are bending o'er our dead,

And the odours breathed from his native groves,

On the exile's heart they shed;

Like him who gazed on his country's palm,

By the palace-circled Seine,

Till the Pagod rose in the wanderer's dream,

And the Ganges rolled again.

How sweet in our childhood's ear they spoke,

For we knew their voices well,

When far in our western hills they woke,

Of the coming spring to tell;

But now they send us a sadder sound,
On the winds of Autumn eves,

For it murmurs of wisdom more profound,
But it tells of withered leaves.

O, such were the dryad tones that rose

In the Grecian woods of old,

And the voice from the Indian wilderness,
That the conqueror's fate foretold;
For many a minstrel's dream had birth
In the sounds of leaf and breeze,
And the early oracles of earth
Were the old complaining Trees!


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