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POEMS.

POEMS.

THE AGES.

I.

WHEN to the common rest that crowns our days,
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,

Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays
His silver temples in their last repose;

When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows,

And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years.

II.

And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept,

And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, And beat in many a heart that long has slept,Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped,

Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept,

Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed coldThose pure and happy times-the golden days of old.

III.

Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow Areener with years, and blossom through the

flight

Of ages;

let the mimic canvas show

His calm benevolent features; let the light Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the

sight

Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame,
The glorious record of his virtues write,

And hold it up to men, and bid them claim
A palm like his, and catch from him the hal-
lowed flame.

IV.

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw!
Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies,
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at
mercy's law,

And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe
Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth,
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,

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