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Through toils that leave, when all is o'er,

No living trace behind;

But morn shall dawn, and the sea-grey man

Shall not forgotten lie,

When the ocean and the earth give up

The treasures of the sky.

JACOB'S LAMENT.

And all his sons, and all his daughters rose up to comfort him; but he refused to be comforted.- Gen. xxxvii. 35.

AH! woe to the day!-his existence is run,
For, lo! it indeed is the coat of my son;

And its colours, so many, are all become dim,
Save that hue redder grown with the life-blood of
him.

And where are the visions that came o'er his soul, In the day when they told of his powerful control; When the stars of his God condescended to show, That his father and brethren before him should bow?

Alas! by wild beasts of the wilderness torn,
The son of my age never more can return;

The hope of my soul in his absence decays,

And mourning falls deep with the close of my days!

Let sackcloth and ashes be over mé spread,

And control not the wail that awakes for the dead; Forbear-oh! forbear in essaying to give

Relief to the woe which forbids me to live.

Can mortals the dead to the living restore-
Can ye add to my being one breathing the more?
The glory's departed-and friends may convene,
But what shall e'er bring me the days that have been!

These hairs of my head, into hoariness grown,

With grief to the

grave of my son shall

go

down;

And the last falling drop of this dim eye shall be,

A tear for the child that it never shall see!

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

STILL, still it is a lonely woe,

And darkly to the spirit wed,

That seeks and but relief can know,

From brooding o'er the silent dead: Those who have been, with hopes and fears, The guardians of our early years;

Who taught, and loved in us to see,
Such actions as approved should be

Of Heaven, those who have left us here,
To hope, and weep, and feel, and fear,
And suffer in our hearts the woe,

Which theirs again can never know!—
Then peace to thee! for thou wert good,
Lone inmate of this solitude,

Where morning's voice, and evening's hum,
And nature's light, can never come.
Yes! lonely inmate, peace to thee!

For thou wert generous, warm, and free,
While yet thy hand could welcome give,
And heart acknowledge those that live;
In nature's mould superior cast,
And loved and honour'd to the last.

There lives a sympathy apart

From that which language may define,
And wakens o'er this trembling heart,
The strife which cannot come to thine.
And it is well-though power were given,
I would not call thy soul from heaven,
Nor wake thy heart again to feel,
The ills which time must still reveal.

I would not tell thy worth to those,

O'er whom no worth its halo throws

Whose hearts no power 'neath heaven may make

Their aims exalt, or them forsake ;

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