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Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have liv'd, that thus his death
Casts not the soiling one white handkerchief!
T. Who should lament for him, sir, in whuse

heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity ?
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never rais'd her eyes
To woo kind words, from bim, nor laid her head
Up-rais'd upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught.
The multiplicatiop-table was hfs Creed,
His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue.
When yet he was a boy, and should have breath'd
The open air and sun-shine of the fields,
To give his blood its natural spring and play,
He, in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smock-dried and sear'd and shrivell’d up his heart.
So, from the way in which he was train'd up,
His feet departed not; he toil'd and moild,
Poor muck-worm! thro' his three-score years and

ten,
And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on bim,
If that which sery'd him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'twould still be, dirt to dirt.

S. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honourable wealth,
A bright example.

T. Even half a million
Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelve-months hence, and you will find his

virtues

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Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,
Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.

SOUTHEY

PSALM.

Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have liv'd, that this list
Casts not the soiling one white handkerchier
T. Who should lament for him, sir, in we

heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity ?
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his su
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never rais'd ber as
To woo kind words, from him, nor laid besla
Up-rais’d upon his knee, with fondling whis
How could it be but thus! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught.
The multiplication-table was h$ Creed,
His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue.
When yet he was a boy, and should have bresa
The open air and sun-shine of the fields,
To give his blood its natural spring and pas,
He, in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smock-dried and sear'd and shri rell d op his be
So, from the way in which he was train'den
His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moild,
Poor muck-worm! thro' his three-score Fearia

ten,
And when the earth shall now be shovell'den bi
If that which sery'd him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'twould still be, dirt to dist.

S. Yet your next newspapers will blazen bit
For industry and honourable wealth,
A bright example.

T. Even half a million
Gets him no other praise. But come this was
Some twelve-months hence, and you will find a

virtues

View of the heavenly bodies.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Doth his Creator's power display ;
And publishes, to every land,
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale ;
And, nightly, to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth.
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What tho', in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ;
What tho' no real voice nor sound
Amidst the radient orbs be found;
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing,

as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine !"

ADDISON.

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COMFORT
When gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few;
On Him I lean, who not in vain,
Experienced every human pain.
He sees my griefs, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.
If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way:
To fly the good I would pursue,
Or do the thing I would not do:
Still He who felt temptation's power,
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.
If wounded love my bosom swell,
Despised by those I prized too well;
He shall his pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer woe;
At once betrayed, denied, or fled,
By those who shared his daily bread.
When vexing thoughts within me rise,
And, sore dismayed, my spirit dies;
Yet He who once vouchsafed to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.
When mourning o'er some stone I bend
Which covers all that was a friend;
And from his voice, his hand, his smile,
Divides me for a little while;
Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed,
For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.
And O! when I have safely past
Through every conflict but the last ;

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Still

, still unchanging, watch beside
My paiuful bed for thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.

R. GRANT

A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH.

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By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While thro' their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slum'bring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire :
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

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Those graves, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where Toil and Poverty repose.

The fat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chissel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent step may wear away)
A Middle Race of mortals owu,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the Rich or praise the Great ;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades ;
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.

Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house witb dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)

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