There's not a blossom fondled by the breeze, But Nature owns thy plastic influence there! TIME. SIR WALTER SCOTT. "WHY sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle, so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it pass'd away?" "Know'st thou not me!" the deep voice cried, "So long enjoyed, so oft misused; Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused? "Before my breath, like blazing flax, "Redeem mine hours-the space is brief- When Time and thou shalt part for ever!" THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS. MONTGOMERY. THIS place is holy ground, 'Tis not the morning light That wakes the lark to sing, 'Tis not a meteor of the night, Nor track of angel's wing; It is an uncreated beam, Like that which shone on Jacob's dream. Eternity and Time Met for a moment here, From earth to heaven, a scale sublime Rested on either sphere, Whose steps a saintly figure trod, By Death's cold hand led home to God. He landed in our view, 'Midst flaming hosts above, Whose ranks stood silent while he drew Thrill'd with ecstatic awe, Entranced our spirits fell, And saw-yet wist not what we saw, What sound the ear of rapture caught, On wings of mounting fire, Faith may pursue the enfranchised soul, Behold the bed of death; This pale and lovely clay- Bury the dead-and weep In stillness o'er the loss; Bury the dead-in Christ they sleep, And from the grave their dust shall rise COMFORT IN A CLOUDY DAY. BARTON. EXPECT not, pilgrim, Zion-ward, In storm or whirlwind, as in wrath, He holds unseen his righteous way, Dark clouds denote his viewless path, And thine may seem a winter's day, Be patient, though the sea be made A tower of strength His name ador'd. The Lord is good: He still remains, THE WORM. GISBORNE. TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside, The common Lord of all that move, |