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Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, - with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save his own dashings, - yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Yet has no month a prouder day,

Not even when the summer broods O'er meadows in their fresh array,

Or autumn tints the glowing woods.

For this chill season now again

Brings in its annual rounds the morn When greatest of the sons of men,

Our glorious Washington, was born.

AULD LANG SYNE

BY ROBERT BURNS

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

HIGHLAND MARY

BY ROBERT BURNS

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As, underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipp'd flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly; But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary!

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