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Hannah Flagg Gould.


It must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing!

And now we part, thou pallid form of clay!

Thy hold is broken — I unfurl my wing;

And from the dust the spirit must away!

As thou at night, hast thrown thy vesture by, Tired with the day, to seek thy wonted rest, Fatigued with time's vain round, 'tis thus that I Of thee, frail covering, myself divest.

Thou knowest, while journeying in this thorny road, How oft we've sighed and struggled to be twain ;

How I have longed to drop my earthly load,

And thou, to rest thee from thy toil and pain.

Then he, who severs our mysterious tie,

Is a kind angel, granting each release;

He'll seal thy quivering lip and sunken eye, And stamp thy brow with everlasting peace.

When thou hast lost the beauty that I


And life's gay scenes no more will give thee place, Thou may'st retire within the secret grave,

Where none shall look upon thine altered face.

But I am summoned to the eternal throne,

To meet the presence of the King most high;

I go to stand unshrouded and alone. Full in the light of God's all-searching eye.

There must the deeds which we together wrought, Be all remembered — each a witness made;

The outward action and the secret thought

Before the silent soul must there be weighed.

Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend

To waft me up where love and

mercy dwell; Away, vain fears! the Judge will be

my friend; It is my Father calls — pale clay,



Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the sand

My name — the year—the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,

And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me: A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more, Of me — my day — the name I bore,

To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands.

And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands,

Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part has wrought; Of all this thinking soul has thought; And from these fleeting moments caught

For glory or for shame.

James Grahame.

[From The Sabbath.]

How still the morning of the hallowed day!

Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The ploughboy's whistle and the

milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy


Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,

That yester-morn bloomed waving

in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the

ear,— the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the


The distant bleating midway up the hill.

Calmness seems throned on yon un

moving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland


The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;

While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke

O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods:

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din

Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.

Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops, and

looks on man, her deadliest foe. The toil-worn

horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at


And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,

His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor

man's day. On other days, the man of toil is


To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground

Both seat and board, screened from

the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring

hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his


He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy

Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form,

A word and a grimace, but reverently,

With covered face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor

man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to


The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;

While wandering slowly up the riverside,

He meditates on Him whose power

he marks In each green tree that proudly

spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that

bloom Around the roots We walk alone through all life's various ways, Through light and darkness, sorrow,

Elinor Gray.

joy, and change; And greeting each to each, through passing days,

Still we are strange.

We hold our dear ones with a firm,

strong grasp; We hear their voices, look into their


And yet, betwixt us in that clinging clasp

A distance lies.

We cannot know their hearts, how

e'er we may Mingle thought, aspiration, hope and



We cannot reach them, and in vain


To enter there.

Still, in each heart of hearts a hidden deep

Lies, never fathomed by its dearest, best,

With closest care our purest thoughts we keep,

And tenderest.

But, blessed thought! we shall not

always so In darkness and in sadness walk


There comes a glorious day when we shall know

As we are known.

Thomas Gray.


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his

weary way, And leaves the world to darkness

and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape

on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness


Save where the beetle wheels his

droning flight, And drowsy tinkhngs lull the distant


Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yewtree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, [care: Or busy housewife ply her evening No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe

has broke; How jocund did they drive their team


How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure! [smile Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth

e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour,— The paths of glory lead but to the


Nor you, ye proud, impute to these

the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies


Where through the long-drawn aisle

and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note

of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death 1

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might

have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to' blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's


Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious

truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous


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