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(Job ix. 25, 26.)

TIME speeds away-away-away:
Another hour-another day-
Another month-another year—
Drop from us like the leaflets sere;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts:
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,
The tresses from the temples fall,
The eye grows dim and strange to all.

Time speeds away-away-away;
Like torrent in a stormy day,

He undermines the stately tower,

Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;

And sweeps from our distracted breast
The friends that loved-the friends that blessed;
And leaves us weeping on the shore,
To which they can return no more.

Time speeds away-away-away:
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as hc,

Like fiery steed-from stage to stage
He bears us on, from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea

Of fathomless Eternity.



(Exodus xx. 12.)

THE Voice of nature, yea, the voice of God,
Commands to honour those that gave us birth,--
Even her, from whose supporting bosom flowed
By far the sweetest stream that flows on earth;
Whose tongue of kindness never knew a dearth
Of soothing words that could our griefs allay--
Even him who listened to our prattling mirth,
Who early taught our infant lips to pray,
And led our tottering steps to walk in wisdom's way.

A parent is, indeed, a tender friend,

And, if once lost, we never more shall find

A bosom that so tremblingly can blend

Its feelings with our own congenial mind;
Our lips may speak their anguish to the wind
That hurries heedlessly and wildly by--
Our hearts, to lonely agony consigned,

May throb without relief-for no reply

Comes from the mouldering breasts that in their grave-bed lie.

And then we pause to think-alas! how late!-
Of deeds that wrung a parent's heart with pain;
And oh! could we but open death's dark gate,
And lead them back into the world again—

Oh! but once more to see their face!-'tis vain! Once more to hear their voice!—'tis sweetly driven Across our fancy, and expires,--and then

We wish ourselves away-away to heaven, To weep upon their breast, and there to be forgiven. KNOX'S SONGS OF ISRAEL.


O WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave—
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the

Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lic.

The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blest,
Each-all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,

The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes-like the flower and the weed,

That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes-even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have


We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,

We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would


From the death we are shrinking from, they, too, would shrink,

To the life we are clinging to, they, too, would cling— But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved-but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned-but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved but no wail from their slumbers may come;

They joyed-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died-aye, they died! and we things that

are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the

Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud— O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!


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