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HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.

THE SOUL'S FAREWELL.

Ir must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing!

And now we part, thou pallid form of clay!

Thy hold is broken-I unfurl my wing;

And from the dust the spirit must away!

As thou at night, hast thrown thy vesture by,

Tired with the day, to seek thy wonted rest,

Fatigued with time's vain round, 't is thus that I

I go to stand unshrouded and alone, Full in the light of God's all-searching eye.

There must the deeds which we together wrought,

Be all remembered — each a witness made;

The outward action and the secret thought

Before the silent soul must there be weighed.

Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend

To waft me up where love and mercy dwell;

Of thee, frail covering, myself di- Away, vain fears! the Judge will be

vest.

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my friend;
It is my Father calls-
farewell!

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pale clay,

A NAME IN THE SAND.

ALONE I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the sand

My name- the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,

And washed my lines away.
With every mark on earth from me:
And so, methought, 'twill shortly be

A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more, Of me- - my day—the name I bore, To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the
sands,

And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,

Inscribed against my name,
Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments
caught

For glory or for shame.

JAMES GRAHAME.

[From The Sabbath.]

SABBATH MORNING.

How still the morning of the hallowed day!

Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath

Of tedded grass, mingled with fading

flowers, That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear, the hum

Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating midway up the hill.

Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.

To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,

The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

Murmurs more gently down the

deep-sunk glen;

While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke

O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

The voice of psalms, the simple song

of praise.

With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din

Hath ceased; all, all around is quiet

ness.

Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

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ELINOR GRAY.

ISOLATION.

WE walk alone through all life's va- | We cannot reach them, and in vain

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ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- | Save that from yonder ivy-mantled

YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting 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:

tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yewtree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, [care: Or busy housewife ply her evening No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure! [smile Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth

e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour,The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

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