To the Departed.

ANONYMOUS.

THY rest is with the fallen great,
The sons of earthly pride,

Where hundreds, in their last cold state,
Are slumbering at thy side.

The warrior and his bride are there,
With hands upraised in silent prayer;

And he, whose high and stately look.
The strength of adverse senates shook.
Dim through these long and shadowy aisles,
The entering moonbeam sadly smiles,

O'er many a shield and helm of price,
And many a rich and fair device;

And faint from arch and mouldering stone
The night-wind lifts its fitful moan,
As telling in its wild lament

Of faded power and glories spent ;
Or mourning over names forgot,
Around the consecrated spot,

TO THE DEPARTED.

Where dust with kindred dust recline,
The latest of thy ancient line.

Oh! better had thy tomb been made

Beneath the unbounded sky,

Where tree and flower might cast their shade,
And summer breezes sigh:

There should the fading evening sleep,
And morn her tears of fragrance weep,
And the faint stars, at daylight's close,
Watch o'er thy still and deep repose :
For thou wert as Forgiveness mild—
Retiring Nature's humble child;

With glance of love and tongue of praise,
For all that met thy lovely gaze.
The mist-wreath'd hill by tempests riven,
The blue and earth-encircling heaven,
The hurrying cloud and glistening sea,
Teem'd with a mystic life for thee;
But from the charm, whose fetters hold
The weak, the senseless, and the cold-
The voice of fame, the lure of pride-
Thy gentle spirit turned aside :
Too meek the eye of scorn to brook,
Or stern detraction's withering look.
As blooms the flower in desert rude,
As sings the bird in solitude,
As fairest shines, removed from sight,

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The insect lamp of deepening night—
Mild, blest and blessing, to the last,
Thine earthly pilgrimage was past,
With influence, like that swelling strain,
When winds are wakening on the main,
A voice of peace, a softened tone-
Heard-felt-remembered-though unknown.

Faith to the Bereaved.

J. S. BUCKMINSTER.

WOULD you know the value of faith to the bereaved ? Go and follow a corpse to the grave. See the body deposited there, and hear the earth thrown in upon all that remains of your friend. Return now, if you will, and brood over the lesson which your senses have given you, and derive from it what consolation you can. You have learned nothing but an unconsoling fact. No voice of comfort issues from the tomb: all is still there, and blank, and lifeless, and has been so for ages. You see nothing but bodies dissolving and successively mingling with the clods which cover them, the grass growing over the spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this region of eternal silence. And what is there more? Nothing. Come, Faith, and

THE FINAL REUNION.

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people these deserts! Come, and reanimate these regions of forgetfulness! Mothers! take again your children to vour arms, for they are living. Sons! your aged parents are coming forth in the vigor of regenerated years. Friends! behold your dearest connections are waiting to embrace you. The tombs are burst; generations long since in slumbers are awakening! They are coming from the east and the west, from the north and the south, to constitute the community of the blessed!

The Final Reunion.

ROBERT BLAIR.

WHEN the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring dust,

Not unattentive to the call, shall wake,

And ev'ry joint possess its proper place,

With a new elegance of form unknown

To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner; but amidst the crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush, with all th' inspiration of a man.

That's new come home, who having long been absent,

With haste runs over ev'ry different room,

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!

Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night,
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus at the shut of even, the weary bird

Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake
Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day,
Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away.

Death in the Snow Storm.

JAMES THOMSON.

As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,
All winter drives along the darkened air;
In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain
Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain :
Nor finds the river, nor the forest hid
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray;
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,

Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!