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We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or anything;

As

We die,

your hours do; and dry
Away

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

THE HERMIT.- Beattie.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'T was then, by the cave of the mountain reclined,
A hermit his nightly complaint thus began;
Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resigned;
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to

mourn;

O, soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away, Full quickly they pass, but they never return!

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; But lately I marked when, majestic, on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again; But man's faded glory no change shall renew; Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

"O, pity, great Father of light!" then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;

Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn;
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn;

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are
blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS, BY LONGFELLOW.

NTO the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Jouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions
Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band!
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed,

Int the Silent Land!

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