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Praise trembled still on each expiring breath,
And holy triumph beamed from every eye.

Then gentle hands their "dust to dust" con-
sign;

With quiet tears, the simple rites are said;
And here they sleep, till at the trump divine,
The earth and ocean render up their dead.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST
SON.
CANNING.

THOUGH short thy span, God's unimpeach'd
decrees,

The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there!
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite

son!

Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.

"Twas thine own Genius gave the fatal blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee
low:

So the struck Eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his
heart:

Which made that shorten'd span one long Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel

disease;

Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope,
Meek resignation, pious charity;

And, since this world was not the world for
thee,

Far from thy path removed, with partial

care,

Strife, glory, gain, and Pleasure's flowery

snare,

Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,

And fix'd on Heaven thy unreverted eye! Oh! mark'd from birth, and nurtur❜d for the skies!

In youth, with more than learning's wisdom,
wise!

As sainted martyrs, patient to endure!
Simple, as unwean'd infancy, and pure!
Pure from all stain (save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath wash'd
away!)

By mortal sufferings now no more oppress'd,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destin'd rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier

doom,

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They strewed thee, in thy narrow bed,
With roses from thy own loved bowers:
In melting anguish memory fled

Back to thy valued rural hours;
And saw thee gentle gliding round,
Where all to thee was Eden ground.

The God, whose presence met thee there,
Was with thee in thy slow decays;

Pour forth a Father's sorrows on thy tomb? He answered to thy dying prayer,

ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE.

BYRON.

UNHAPPY WHITE! while life was in its
spring,

Whose life had been a hymn of praise : Thy God was nigh-thy Shepherd God, With comfort of his staff and rod.

I lay thee where the loved are laid:
Rest-till their change and thine shall
come;

And thy young Muse just waved her joyous Still voices whisper through the shade;

wing,

A light is glimmering round the tomb;

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They died,-for Adam sinn'd ;-they live, The flesh rests here till Jesus come:

for Jesus died.

To claim his treasure from the tomb.

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Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour.
"I've lost a day"-the prince who nobly
cried,

Had been an emperor without his crown;
Of Rome? say rather, lord of human race:
He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.
So should all speak: so reason speaks in all :
From the soft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,
For rescue from the blessing we possess !
Time the supreme;-Time is eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give;
Pregnant with all, that makes archangels
smile.

Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth
A power ethereal, only not adored.

INFLUENCE OF TIME.

SHAKSPEARE.

TIME's glory is to calm contending Kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time on aged things To wake the morn, and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right; To ruinate proud buildings with his hours, And smear with dust their glittering golden towers!

To fill with worm-holes stately monuments To feed oblivion with decay of things,

RUINS OF PALMYRA.

MALCOLM.

SAD city of the silent place!
Queen of the dreary wilderness,
No voice of life, no passing sound
Disturbs thy dreadful calm around;
Save the wild desert-dweller's roar,
Which tells the reign of man is o'er,
Or winds that thro' thy portal sigh
Upon their night-course flitting by!

The eternal ruins frowning stand,
Like giant-spectres of the land;
Or o'er the dead like mourners hang,
Bent down by speechless sorrow's pang;
What time, and space, and loneliness,
All, o'er the sadden'd spirit press,
Around in leaden slumbers lie
The dread wastes of infinity,
Where not a gentle hill doth swell,
Where not a hermit shrub doth dwell;
And where the song of wandering flood
Ne'er voiced the fearful solitude.

How sweetly sad our pensive tears
Flow o'er each broken arch that rears
Its grey head through the mists of years!
And where are now the dreams of Fame,
The promise of a deathless name?
Alas! the deep delusion's gone?
And all, except the mouldering stone,
The wreath that deck'd the victor's hair,
Hath, like his glory, withered there:
And Time's immortal garlands twine
O'er desolation's mournful shrine,
Like youth's embrace around decline.

O'er Beauty's dark and desert bed
Ages of dreamless sleep have fled,
And in the domes where once she smiled,
The whispering weeds are waving wild;

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