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Methinks this duft yet heaves with breath,

Ten thousand pulses beat;
Tell me, in this small hill of death,
How many mortals meet?

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

XXXI.

THE RAIN DROP.

[graphic]

HAT if each drop of rain should plead,

So small a drop as I
Can ne'er refresh the thirsty glebe;

I'll tarry in the sky

What if each little ray at noon

Should in its fountain stay ; Because its feeble light alone

Cannot create a day?

Doth not each rain-drop help to form

The cool refreshing shower; And every ray of light to warm

And beautify the flower ?

XXXII

THE FALLING LEAF.

EE! the leaves around us falling,

Dry and withered to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,

In a sad and folemn sound :

“Sons of Adam (once in Eden

Where, like us, ye blighted fell), Hear the lesson we are reading,

Mark the awful truths we tell.

Youth, on length of days presuming,

Who the paths of pleasure tread, View us late in beauty blooming,

Numbered now among the dead.

“ What though yet no losses grieve you,

Gay with health and many a grace ; Let not cloudless kies deceive

you, Summer gives to autumn place.

“Yearly in our course returning,

Messengers of shortest stay,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,

Heaven and Earth shall pass away.

« On the tree of life eternal,

Oh let all our hopes be laid !
This alone, for ever vernal,
Bears a leaf that shall not fade.”

BISHOP Horne.

XXXIII.

THE LAST MAN IN SIR JOHN FRANK

LIN'S EXPEDITION.

I.

HEY have fallen one by one ;

The last, but one, to-day-
God! am I left, alone,

To track this weary way;

My weary way to the River,
The haven where I would be ?
But, alas ! heart-struck I shiver

I can never attain the sea !
I am touching his lifeless head,

A waif on this desolate shore ;
I am kissing the last of the dead-
Shall I see man's face no more i

Cold, Cold, Cold,
But mine hour is not yet told !

[graphic]

Sir John Franklin's @rpedition. 161

II.

In mine ear the terrible rush,

The thundering rush of the floe; And the shriek of her ribs in the grinding crush,

And the good ship in her throe. In mine heart, their mute despair,

And the groans of our wailing knell, As the death-call fwooped through the pitiless air,

And the pale men drooped and fell.
Where they fell, they lay ;

Not a knee rose more to the light;
The reeling and shrunken clay
Sank at once into icy night!

Cold, Cold, Cold,
And mine hour as yet untold !

III.

Mine eyelids burn; congeals

My brain within its cell ;
And the scalding tear-drop steals

From an overflowing well ;
For I dream of fond hearts at home,

I think of the brave that are gone ;
As I gaze at this star-lit dome,

And stagger from stone to stone. We were two but yesternight,

And, faint, to this welcome fod I've crawled, till he's out of sightAnd there's no one near but God !

Cold, Cold, Cold, And mine hour is nearly told!

M

IV.

When they come, for come they will,

Nor search this coast in vain,
They will find us sleeping still,

On its lone unfriendly plain ;
But none shall ever know,

Till the Great Day comes at last;
Our griefs in these realms of snow,

And the horrors of the Past!
For I sink on this fatal beach ;

I have prayed with my latest breath;
And my struggles will only reach
The River of Life, in Death!

Cold, Cold, icy Cold,
And mine own last hour is told!

B. P.

XXXIV.

THE CHURCH-YARD.
HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting

[graphic]

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 holds
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

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