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I love to wake and gaze upon
Those sparkling plains of night's deep blue,
ETERNITY, what art thou then, dread object of our fears,
The thought of which blanches the cheek, and dims the eye with tears?
A shoreless ocean on whose tide the found'ring bark is tost;
Such Nature's fears would picture forth, the dread untried-unknown;
Is there as here thy portion; and as thou dost onward move
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!
THE EARLY DEAD.
OH! weep not for the early dead,
Than earthly lot can ever be.
The stars gleam down upon their graves,
And gentle zephyrs near them blow.
But while the rays of eve's sweet star
Than stars can know, or zephyrs breathe.
The storm may howl, the tempest sweep
But theirs is slumber far too deep,
The withering touch of mortal care
They sleep in peace, their early doom
Hath saved from thousand earth-born woes,
And soon they'll leave the quiet tomb,
Then weep not for the early dead
Who die in life's young infancy;
More tranquil is their lowly bed,
Like the latest left of the battle-spears,
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
But the sun shines bright, and the showers descend,
Their pearls on each leafless bough,
For life hath its winters cold and hoar,
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,
For it murmurs of wisdom more profound,
O, such were the dryad tones that rose
In the Grecian woods of old,
And the voice from the Indian wilderness,