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And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away: -

VII.

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Now joy, old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

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VIII.

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Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou :
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave !

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A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR.

(THE RIVER OF LIFE.]
The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages :
A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.

5

The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.

10

But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath,

And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of death,

Feel we its tide more rapid ?

15

It may be strange-yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,

And left our bosoms bleeding ?

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Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of youth, a seeming length,

Proportioned to their sweetness.

LONGFELLOW.

A PSALM OF LIFE,

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE

PSALMIST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream !-
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

5

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

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A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

5

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

10

Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends,
Through which I walked to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

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Thy dress was like the lilies,

And thy heart as pure as they : One of God's holy messengers

Did walk with me that day.

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