The Hour of Death.-MRS. HEMANS.
LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears-but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own,
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when Spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—
They have one season-all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.
OH! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,
One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin'd,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who, mould'ring earthward, 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss ?-
There live, alas! of Heav'n-directed mien,
Of cultur'á soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay!
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower!
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Lights to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To Night and Silence sink for ever more!—
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?
Is this your triumph-this your proud applause,
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing,
By shore and sea-each mute and living thing?
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driv'n,
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n?
Oh! star-ey'd Science, hast thou wander'd there
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears,
Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the skeptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ?
I smile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain !
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If Chance awak'd, inexorable pow'r !
This frail and fev'rish being of an hour,
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom!
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!
Truth, ever lovely, since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,-
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd,
And that were true which Nature never told,
Let wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field;
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd!
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!
Saturday Evening.-TRENTON EMPORIUM.
THERE is something peculiarly solemn in the eve of the Sabbath, in the return of labourers, and the preparation for rest, and the general feeling of enlargement. And even where we do not observe the eastern custom of commencing our Sabbath on Saturday evening, yet the Lord's day seems to dawn, and the cessation of cares to betoken something peaceful, and the expectation of approaching solemnities to calm the soul; so that the man must be peculiarly volatile, or peculiarly stupid, who is not, of necessity, thrown out of the common rout of his giddy, or his busy thoughts, when the ruddy streaks of the west are beginning to grow dusky, and the week seems fading away.
And what are the thoughts which a conscientious person would have, and which, of course, we all ought to have, at such a time?-A week is past; let my thoughts run through its business; and let conscience pass a faithful sentence. Am I a better man, a better husband, a better wife, a better neighbour, or whatever be my calling, and whatever the duties which it lays upon me? Am I more satisfied with my conduct, than I was the week before? If I am not, I have lived in vain. What have I done for the good of the neighbourhood? what for the public good? How have I been prospered in business; and how have I shown my thankfulness by administering to the necessities of those around me ?
Are no sick, afflicted strangers in my vicinity? If not, is not this the most favoured spot under heaven? And if there are, what have I done for their relief? If in none of these things, I have been improving, I am living for myself, a selfish niggard, unworthy of the name of man or Christian. Am I better prepared for dying, than I was last week? And when I look forward, how am I going to spend the next week; and what new project for improvement have I in mind? And how am I about to sanctify the Sabbath? And what can I do for the good of others?
WHO scorn the hallowed day, set heaven at naught.
Heav'n would wear out whom one short sabbath tires.
Emblem and earnest of eternal rest,
A festival with fruits celestial crown'd,
A jubilee releasing him from earth,
The day delights and animates the saint.
It gives new vigour to the languid pulse
Of life divine; restores the wandering feet,
Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip,
Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts,
Establishing them all upon a rock.
Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path,
His progress mark, and keep his rest in view.
In life's bleak winter they are pleasant days,
Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come.
To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn
Seems like the first when every thing was new.
Time seems an angel come afresh from heav'n,
His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies,
And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold.
In every thing a smiling God is seen.
On earth his beauty blooms, and in the sun
His glory shines. In objects overlooked
On other days he now arrests the eye.
Not in the deep recesses of his works,
But on their face he now appears to dwell.
While silence reigns among the works of man,
The works of God have leave to speak his praise
With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea.
His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades
All nature, breathing round the air of heaven,
And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life
A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now
To bring him near, for Faith performs the work,
In solemn thought surrounds herself with God,
With such transparent vividness, she feels
Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd
To sudden vision. Such is oft her power
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