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THE RESURRECTION.

THE setting orb of night her level ray
Shed o'er the land, and on the dewy sward,
The lengthened shadows of the triple cross
Were laid far-stretched,-when in the East arose,
Last of the stars, day's harbinger: No sound
Was heard, save of the watching soldier's foot:
Within the rock-barred sepulchre, the gloom
Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead,
The Holy One; but lo! a radiance faint
Began to dawn around His sacred brow:
The linen vesture seemed a snowy wreath,
Drifted by storms into a mountain cave:
Bright, and more bright, the circling halo beamed
Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign,
Though yet inanimate. Not long the reign
Of death; the eyes, that wept for human griefs,
Unclose, and look around with conscious joy :
Yes; with returning life, the first emotion
That glowed in Jesus' breast of love, was joy
At man's redemption, now complete; at death
Disarmed; the grave transformed into the couch
Of faith; the resurrection and the life.
Majestical He rose; trembled the earth;
The ponderous gate of stone was rolled away;
The keepers fell; the angel, awe-struck, shrunk
Into invisibility, while forth

The SAVIOUR of the World walked, and stood

Before the sepulchre, and viewed the clouds
Empurpled glorious by the rising sun.

Grahame.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad;

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Beneath thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation in her cell,

Hears, with faint eye, the ling'ring knell

That tells her hopes are dead d;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd;
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven

To wean me from the world;

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discust)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Oh, what is beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er beauty's fall;

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth,

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then since this world is vain

And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,

Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill,

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?

Come, Disappointment, come !

Thou art not stern to me;

Sad Monitress! I own thy sway,

A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race is run,

I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done.

Kirke White.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET-SCENTED flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,

And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly Alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest-trees,
And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where, as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

Kirke White.

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HAIL, Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest!
Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell;

The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest

Pale thought no more. O'er Trade's contentious hell
Meek Quiet spreads her wings invisible.

But when thou com'st, less silent are the fields,

Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed townsman steals;

To him the very air a banquet yields.

Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels
His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals

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