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Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
Wails manhood in glory;
Waft the leaves that are searest,
When blighting was nearest.
1 The Coronach of the Highlander, like the Ululoo of the Irish, was a wild expression of lamentation poured forth by the mourners over the body of a departed friend.
Fleet foot on the correi?,
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Serenely resting on its mother's arm, Reposing ev'ry care upon her God,
Sleeps in his bosom, and expects no harm:
Receives with joy the promises he makes,
Nor questions of his purpose or his pow'r: She does not doubting ask, “ Can this be so ?”
The Lord has said it, and there needs no more.
However deep be the mysterious word,
However dark, she disbelieves it not; Where reason would examine, Faith obeys,
And “ It is written” answers ev'ry doubt.
In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery; And pow'rs infernal, wakeful to destroy,
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.
1 The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.
A plundering expedition.
As evening's pale and solitary star
But brightens while the darkness gathers round, So faith, unmov'd amidst surrounding storms, Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.
Miss CAROLINE FRY.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WAEN spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch above him hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And nodded careless by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead, And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
Some years since, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near Stockbridge, a village of Massachusets. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that in the course of the previous winter a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village; and that, in paying the innkeeper, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
Were sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who lov'd him so,
The fearful death he met,
Unarm’d, and hard beset;
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
To banquet on the dead ;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dress’d the hasty bier,
Unmoisten'd by a tear.
Within his distant home;
For joy that he was come.
His welcome step again,
A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT
My birthday of nature I've oftentimes kept,
And rejoic'd in the revels of youth ; Yet 'twas all but a dream, for I slumber'd and slept,
Quite a stranger to God and his truth.