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His starry host had led,

Thou saidst, how sadly and how oft

To that prophetic eye,

Visions of darkness and decline,
And early death were nigh.

It was a voice from other worlds,
Which none beside might hear;—
Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre,
Breathed faintly on the ear;
It was the warning kindly given,
When blessed spirits come,
From their bright paradise above,
To call a sister home.

How sadly on my spirit then,
That fatal warning fell!
But oh! the dark reality
Another voice may tell;

The quick decline the parting sigh

The slowly moving bier

The lifted sod-the sculptured stone

The unavailing tear!—

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven,

Entwine thy temples now;

The crown that shines immortally,

Is beaming on thy brow;

The seraphs round the burning throne

Have borne thee to thy rest,




To dwell among the saints on high,
Companion of the blest.

The sun is set in folded clouds
Its twilight rays are gone,
And gathered in the shades of night,
The storm is rolling on.
Alas! how ill that bursting storm
The fainting spirit braves,
When they, the lovely and the lost,
Are gone to early graves.



O! once was felt the storm of war!
It had an earthquake's roar,
It flashed upon the mountain height
And smoked along the shore.
It thundered in a dreaming ear
And up the Farmer sprang;
It muttered in a bold true heart
And a warrior's harness rang.

It rumbled by a widow's door,-
All but her hope did fail:
It trembled through a leafy grove,
And a maiden's cheek was pale


It steps upon the sleeping sea
And waves around it howl;

It strides from top to foaming top
Out-frowning ocean's scowl.

And yonder sailed the merchant ship-
There was peace upon her deck;
Her friendly flag from the mast was torn,
And the waters whelmed the wreck.
But the same blast that bore her down
Filled a gallant daring sail,

That loved the night of black'ning storm
And laughed in the roaring gale.

The stream that was a torrent once
Is rippled to a brook,

The sword is broken, and the spear
Is but a pruning hook.

The mother chides her truant boy,
And keeps him well from harm;
While in the grove the happy maid
Hangs on her lover's arm.

Another breeze is on the sea,
Another wave is there
And floats abroad triumphantly,
A banner bright and fair.

And peaceful hands and happy hearts,
And gallant spirits keep

Each star that decks it pure and bright
Above the rolling deep.


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They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning knife of Time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn,

And he shakes his feeble head

That it seems as if he said,
'They are gone.'

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.


My grandmama has said—
Poor old lady-she is dead
Long ago;

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,

And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here,

But the old three cornered hat,

And the breeches and all that

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring

Let them smile as I do now

At the old forsaken bough,

Where I cling.


O. W. H.

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