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He came :-Thy burthen on him laid,
He meekly bow'd his head :-'Twas done,
The beam of heayen’s affrighted sun.
Yet Sinai's thunder speaks in vain;
Enslaved by sin's unyielding chain.
Thy welling side, -Thy mournful brow,
The heart of ice is melted now.
And death shall still this heart of mine,
Thy glory, and thy life shall shine.
THE MOUNTAIN BEE.
'Tis morning's earliest dawn; The dark grey clouds grow rosy in the east,
And cast a crimson glow of shining light
Slowly and silently
Above the mountain top and forest tree,
And hark! a low soft hum
Too near the earth to be the wild lark's song,
It is the mountain bee
Making it ring a sweet-toned matin chime
Anon those tones are still,
He takes his fill, rings out another tune,
Now on a bed of thyme
He culls delicious food for coming hours,
He pauses not for rest,
A living lesson, passing eloquent,
But see, the sun goes down
The flowers have closed their eyes, and homeward comes Laden with honey sweets, the wearied mountain bee. Winchester.
THE EARLY DEAD.
Gently they passed away
In the full glory of their youthful prime, And sought in the far distant land of day
A more congenial clime. They found an early tomb;
Their life was like the fragrance of a flower, Fleeting but beautiful; their radiant bloom
Faded in one short hour.
In glorious beauty, but its brilliant skies
In sunny Paradise.
Or think it hard that they so soon should die.
And now they rest on high.
Death with its sable wing
May darken all that's bright and lovely here, But never can his blighting shadows fling
On what is lovely there. Here shall they spotless bloom
In everlasting beauty, while the night Shall never shadow with its cheerless gloom,
Those flow'rets of the light.
Shall ever sweep across that garden fair,
ERE, in the northern gale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade,
The valleys sick with heat ?
Let in through all the trees
Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
And glimmerings of the sun.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah! 'twere a lot too blest
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.