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Then, as down to ocean glancing,
When the lonely night-watch keeping,
When with slow and gentle motion,
When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck, and death before thee; While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming,
Then, a pious suppliant bending,
A NAME IN THE SAND.
Alone I walked the ocean-strand;
My name—the year—the day.
And washed my lines away.
And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
To leave nor track, nor trace.
And yet with Him who counts the sands,
Inscribed against my name,
THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.
Now the growing year is over,
Rings a low farewell :
In the rocky dell.
Now the mist is on the mountains,
Perish one by one:
Not a spire of grass is growing,
With a mantle dun.
Now the torrent brook is stealing
Such a din is made,
In the pine's black shade.
Darkly blue the mist is hovering Round the clifted rock's bare heightAll the bordering mountains covering
With a dim, uncertain light : Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Wide its heavy burden sailing, Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.
Slow the blood-stained moon is riding
In the torch's glare :
Few the hours her light is given-
THE FLIGHT OF TIME.
Faintly. flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away ; Down to ocean gliding ever,
Keep thy calm unruffled way : Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air, To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.
Roses bloon, and then they wither :
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither
Then, like visions, hurry by : Quick as clouds at evening driven
O'er the many-coloured west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest.