And could the painter's mimic art
Their semblance perfectly retrace,
Thy memory would not, in my heart,
Obtain a more enduring place.

All that such art might body forth,
Could but thy outward form display;
It still would leave untold the worth
Which has survived that form's decay.

It still would leave each gem unguess'd,
The casket transiently enshrined;
Each virtue which adorn'd thy breast,
Each talent that enrich'd thy mind.

Continue, then, as thou hast been,
A spirit, to my spirit known;
By grosser sense unfelt, unseen ;
Beloved, revered in thought alone.

As such, thy image is more dear
Than blazon'd in the costliest frame;
As such, I still may think thee near,
And bless thy memory and thy name.

BERNARD BARTON, 1784-1849.

THE DEPARTED FRIEND.

NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear;

Feed not on thoughts so loathly horribleThe spirit is not there

That kindled that dead eye,

That throbb'd in that cold heart,
That in that motionless hand
Has met thy friendly grasp :
The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh,

That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's minist'ring particles Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved—

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talk'd of death—
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the cherubim,

To view the depths of heaven!

Oh, thou hast first

Begun the travel of eternity!—
I gaze amid the stars

And think that thou art there,

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee—
And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,

To watch the friends we loved

We did not err;

Sure I have felt thy presence, thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure-
We did not err;

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy—
The soul outgrows them not,

We do not cast them off:

Oh, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And though remembrance wake a tear,

There will be joy in grief.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.

NEVER HOLD MALICE.

OH! never "hold malice;" it poisons our life
With the gall-drop of hate and the nightshade of

strife;

Let us scorn where we must, and despise where we

may,

But let anger, like sunlight, go down with the day. Our spirits in clashing may bear the hot spark, But no smouldering flame to break out in the dark; 'Tis the narrowest heart that creation can make, 'Where our passion folds up like the coils of a snake.

Oh! never "hold malice;" it cannot be good,
For 'tis nobler to strike in the rush of hot blood
Than to bitterly cherish the name of the foe,
Wait to sharpen a weapon, and measure the blow.
The wild dog in hunger-the wolf in its spring-
The shark of the waters-the asp with its sting—
Are less to be fear'd than the vengeance of man,
When it lieth in secret to wound when it can.

Oh! never "hold malice;" dislike if you will,
Yet remember Humanity linketh us still;
We are all of us human, and all of us erring,
And Mercy within us should ever be stirring.
Shall we dare to look up to the Father above
With petitions for pardon, or pleading for love?

Shall we dare, while we pant for revenge on another, To ask from a God, yet deny to a brother?

ELIZA COOK, 1818—

PITY.

How lovely in the arch of heaven
Appears yon sinking orb of light,
As, darting through the clouds of even,
It gilds the rising shades of night!
Yet brighter, fairer, shines the tear
That sparkles o'er misfortune's bier!

Sweet is the murmur of the gale

That whispers through the summer grove,
Soft is the tone of friendship's tale,
And softer still the voice of love;

Yet softer far the tears that flow
To mourn to soothe another's woe!

Richer than richest diadem

That glitters on the monarch's brow,
Purer than ocean's purest gem,

Or all that wealth or art can shew,
The drop that swells on Pity's eye-
The pearl of Sensibility!