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[From The Parting Hour.)

Minutely trace man's life: year after year, Through all his days let all his deeds appear,

And then, though some may in that

life be strange, Vet there appears no vast nor sudden


The links that bind those various deeds are seen,

And no mysterious void is left between.

But let these binding links be all destroyed, All that through years he suffered or


Let that vast gap be made, and then

behold — This was the youth, and he is thus

when old; Then we at once the work of time


And in an instant see a life's decay; Pain mixed with pity in our bosoms rise,

And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.


Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair — A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,

Watching his looks with kind and

pensive air; Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the


Nor kindred of this friendly pair the


Yet so allied are they, that few can feel

Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;

Their years and woes, although they long have loved,

Keep their good name and conduct un reproved;

Thus life's small comforts they together share,

And while life lingers, for the grave prepare,

No other subjects on their spirits


Nor gain such interest as the past distress;

Grievous events, that from the memory drive

Life's common cares, and those alone survive,

Mix with each thought, in every action share,

Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.

[From The Library.]


Against her foes Religion well defends

Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends;

If learned, their pride, if weak, their

zeal she dreads. And their hearts' weakness who have

soundest heads: But most she fears the controversial


The holy strife of disputatious men; Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore,

Only to fight against its precepts more.

[From The Library.]


Foes to our race 1 if ever ye have known

A father's fears for offspring of your own;

If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line. Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine.

Then paused and doubted, and then

tired of doubt. With rage as sudden dashed the stanza

out; —

If, after fearing much and pausing long,

Ye ventured on the world your labored song,

And from the crusty critics of those days

Implored the feeble tribute of their praise,

Remember now the fears that moved

you then, And, spite of truth, let mercy guide

your pen.

[From The Library.]


How vice and virtue in the soul contend;

How widely differ, yet how nearly blend;

What various passions war on either part,

And now confirm, now melt the

yielding heart: How Fancy loves around the world

to stray,

While Judgment slowly picks his

sober way; The stores of memory, and the

flights sublime Of genius bound by neither space nor

time; —

All these divine Philosophy explores, Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.

[From The Library.]


Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts Save The wise from woe, no fortitude the brave;

Grief is to man as certain as the grave:

Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,

And hope shines dimly through o'er

clouded skies; Some drops of comfort on the favored


But showers of sorrow are the lot of


Partial to talents, then, shall Heaven

withdraw Th' afflicting rod, or break the general


Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,

Life's little cares and little pains refuse?

Shall he not rather feel a double share Of mortal woe, when doubly armed to bear?

[From The Library.]


When first Religion came to bless the land.

Her friends were then a firm believing band.

To doubt was then to plunge in guilt extreme,

And all was gospel that a monk could dream;

Insulted Reason fled the grovelling soul,

For Fear to guide, and visions to control;

But now, when Reason has assumed

her throne, She, in her turn, demands to reign


Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,

And, being judge, will be a witness too:

Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,

To seek the truth, without a power to find:

Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,

And pour on erring man resistless light?

[from The Library.]

But what strange art, what magic
can dispose

The troubled mind to change its native woes?

Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see

Others more wretched, more undone

than we? This books can do; — nor this alone;

they give

New views to life, and teach us how to live;

They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise,

Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise;

Their aid they yield to all; they never shun

The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;

Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,

They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;

Nor tell to various people various things,

But show to subjects what they show to kings.

Dinah Mulock Craik.


Oh, the green things growing, the

green things growing. The faint sweet smell of the green

things growing! I should like to live, whether I smile

or grieve. Just to watch the happy life of my

green things growing.

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering

of those green things growing! How they talk each to each, when

none of us are knowing; In the wonderful white of the weird

moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the

cocks are crowing.

I love, I love them so,— my green things growing!

And I think that they love me, without false showing;

For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,

With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing

Ten for one take they're on me bestowing:

Oh, I should like to see, if God's will

it may be, Many, many a summer of my green

things growing!

But if I must be gathered for the angels' sowing,

Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing,

Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn,

If I may change into green things growing.


"Two hands upon the breast,

And labor's done; Two pale feet crossed in rest,— The race is won; Two eyes with coin-weights shut,

And all tears cease;

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