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XIX.

LIFE.

F veiled our eyes, their piercing sight

Can yet discern some glimmering light;
And Pilgrims wandering here below,
With some celestial impulse glow,

When fleeing this domain of life,
They tread the

pure

and hallowed way,
Up to their Father's realm of day.
How blest the soul, which having fled
The toils that o'er its path were spread,
At one light bound from matter springs,
And seeks its God on rapture's wings!
How blest is he, who, after all
The ills and changes that befall,
Hath trod the intellectual way,
And viewed where beams of glory play,
The fount of light, the throne of day!
Let every wish and thought aspire
On wings of love, on wings of fire ;
And O

may

resolution nerve
Thy breaft, untaught to yield or swerve.
Then will thy Heavenly Parent stand,
And proffer, with paternal hand,
To lead thee to a kindred band.
An orb of fire will blaze before thee,
Reveal the fair ethereal plain,
Where beauty first began her reign,
And light thee to the realm of glory.

[graphic]

Awake, my soul, and quaff thy fill, Drink freely of that fountain-rill, Whose wave impregned with blessing flows, The Lethe of terrestrial woes Bend lowly at thy Father's shrine, To earth the cares of earth resign, And rise to life and joy divine ; To dwell in union with thy God, perchance, A God thyself to move in Heaven's eternal dance!

SYNESIUS.

XX.

LIFE.

IELL me not in mournful numbers,

“ Life is but an empty dream!” For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the

grave

is not its goal;
“ Dust thou art, to dust returneft,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating,

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act,-act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's folemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be

up

and doing, With a heart for any

fate e ; Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

LONGFELLOW.

XXI.

DEATH.

H

E who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is filed,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,

(Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers),
And marked the mild angelic air,
The

rapture of repose that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of that placid cheek,-
And, but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed.

BYRON.

XXII.

DEATH.

[graphic]

JITAL spark of Heavenly flame,

Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame,
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O, the pain, the bliss of dying !

Cease, fond nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark they whisper; Angels say,

Sister Spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight?
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes ; it disappears ;
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears

With sounds seraphic ring;
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fy!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

Pope.

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