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Ah! sweetly they slamber, nor hópe, love, | The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,

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IN Wales, in Switzerland, and in some parts of France, flowers are planted by the hand of affection on the graves of departed relatives. It is a touching and beautiful custom, and, in the first-mentioned country, even the peasant may often be seen bending over the hallowed turf; and as he inserts into the sod some new plant or flower, he performs it with a feeling and a delicacy which do honour to his unsophisticated heart.

FAIR flowers in sweet succession should arise,

Through the long, blooming year, above the grave;
Spring breezes will breathe gentlier o'er that turf,
And Summer glance with mildest, meekest beam
To cherish Piety's dear offerings. There
Rich sounds of Autumn ever shall be heard-
Mysterious, solemn music, waked by winds

To hymn the closing year! And, when the touch
Of sullen Winter blights the last, last gem
That bloomed around the tomb-O there should be
The polished and enduring Laurel-there

The green and glittering Ivy, and all plants—

All hues and forms delicious that adorn
The brumal reign, and often waken hopes
Refreshing. Let eternal verdure clothe
The silent fields where rest the honoured dead,
While mute Affliction comes, and lingers round
With slow, soft step, and pensive pause, and sigh
And tear, all holy.

FUNERAL RITES.

AMERICAN.

O BURY not the dead by day,

When the bright sun is in the sky, But let the evening's mantle gray

Upon the mouldering ashes lie,

And spread around its solemn tone,
Before ye give the earth its own.

The gaudy glare of noon-day light
Befits not well the hour of gloom,
When friend o'er friend performs the rite
That parts them till the day of doom-

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Could tears revive the dead, Rivers should swell our eyes; Could sighs recal the spirit fled, We would not quench our sighs Till love return'd this alter'd mien, And all the embodied soul were seen.

Bury the dead, and weep

In stillness o'er the loss;

Bury the dead-in Christ they sleep Who bore on earth his cross: And from the grave their dust shall rise In his own image to the skies!

THE FAULTS OF THE DEAD LIE IN THEIR GRAVE.

SOTHEBY.

HARD is his heart who never at the tomb
Of one belov'd, o'er the sepulchral urn
Has mus'd on days that shall no more return,
And cull'd around from the funereal gloom,
Shades of past joy; while tears that lenient
flow,

Seem to obliterate the sense of wo.

Lo! on the mirror bright of former days,

Whereon we love to gaze, Repicturing the scene of happiness, No forms unkind intrude;

O'er each hard feature rude, Gather the shadows of forgetfulness; While all that minister'd delight, Floats like a blissful dream before the sight. 'Tis as a pleasant land by moonlight seen, Where each harsh form that met the day, In darkness dies away; Smooth gleams and tender shadows steal between,

While the pale silvery orb glides peaceful o'er the scene.

THE LAST MAN.

CAMPBELL.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die,'

Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime !

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expir'd in fight-the brands Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread: And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, "We're twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"Tis Mercy bids thee go

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth

The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned King of day;

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recal
Life's tragedy again:

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,

Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

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The world is grown old! but should we complain

Who have tried her, and know that her promise is vain?
Our heart is in Heaven, our home is not here,
And we look for our crown when Judgment is near!

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