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Mute, mute is all
O'er beauty's fall, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in
The most belov'd on earth,
Not long survives to-day;
Thus does the shade
In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloy'd is laid.
Then since this world is vain,
And volatile and fleet,
Why fly from ill,
With anxious skill, When soon this hand will frecze, this throbbing
heart be still.
Come, Disappointment, come!
Sad Monitress! I own thy sway,
From sun to sun
My race will run, I only bow and say, My God, thy will be done!
1 How sweet to the heart is the thought of To
morrow, When Hope's pleasing pictures bright co
lours display! How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day!
2 When wearisome sickness has taugbt me to
languish For health, and the comforts it bears on its
wing, Let me hope (oh! how soon it would lessen my
anguish) That To-morrow will ease and serenity bring. 3 When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbe
friended, Sweet the hope that To-morrow my wan
d'rings will cease; That at home, then, with care sympathetic
attended, I shall rest unmolested and slumber in peace.
4 Or when from the friends of my heart long di
vided, The fond expectation with joy how replete ! That from far distant regions, by Providence
5 When six days of labour each other suc
ceeding, With hurry and toil have my spirits op
press'd, What pleasure to think, as the last is receding, To-morrow will be a sweet Sabbath of rest.
6 And when the vain shadows of time are retiring, When life is fast-fleeting, and death is in
sight, The Christian believing, exulting, aspiring,
Beholds a To-morrow of endless delight:
But the Infidel then !-he sees no To-morrow! Yet he knows that his moments are hastening
away : Poor wretch! can he fecl without heart-rending
sorrow, That his joys and his life will expire with
THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE.
Tue sun was departed, the mild zephyr blow
ing Bore over the plain the perfume of the
flowers; In soft undulations the streamlet was flowing,
And calm meditation led forward the hours: I struck the full chord, and the ready tear
started, I sung of an exile, forlorn, broken hearted, Like him, from my bosom all joy is departed, And sorrow has stol’n from the lyre all its
2 I pausid on the strain, when fond mem'ry,
tenacious, Presented the form I must ever esteem : Retrac'd scenes of pleasure, alas, how fallacious!
Evanescent all, all, as the shades of a dream. Yet still, as they rush'd thro' oppress'd recol
lection, The silent tear fell, and the pensive reflection Immers'd my sad bosom in deeper dejection, On which cheering Hope scarcely glances a beam.
3 In vain into beauty all Nature is springing, In vain smiling Spring does the blossoms
unfold; In vain round my cot the wing'd choristers
singing, When each soft affection is dormant and cold. E’en sad as the merchant, bereav'd of his
treasure, So slow beats my heart, and so languid its
measure, So dreary, so lonely, a stranger to pleasure, Around it Affliction her mantle hath roll'd.
4 But meek Resignation supporting the spirit,
Unveils a bright scene to the uplifted eye;