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Earth hath hosts; but thou canst show

Many a million for her one; Through thy gates the mortal flow Has for countless years rolled on:

Back from the tomb

No step has come;
There fixed, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound !

GEORGE CROLY.

A Dirge.

“EA

ARTH to earth, and dust to dust !"

Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid,
In one silent bed are laid ;
Here the vassal and the king
Side by side lie withering;
Here the sword and scepetr rust-
“Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Age on age shall roll along
O'er this pale and mighty throng;
Those that wept them, they that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep;
Brothers, sisters of the worm,-
Summer's sun, or Winter's storm,
Song of peace, or battle's roar
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more;
Death shall keep his sullen trust-
Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

But a day is coming fast-
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last !

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It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil;
It shall come in empires' groans,
Burning temples, ruined thrones ;
Then Ambition, rue thy lust!
Earth to earth, and dust to dust !”

Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the King shall shine,
Flashing from heaven's golden gate-
Thousands, thousands, round his state-
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on thy sight,
Earth be turned to living light-
Kingdom of the ransomed just-
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust."

Then thy mount, Jerusalem,
Shall be gorgeous as a gem !
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise ;
Earth by angel feet be trod-
One great garden of her God!
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a thousand glorious years !
Now in hope of him we trust-
“Earth to earth, and dust to dust."

GEORGE CROLY,

To the Southern Cross.

SWEE

WEET Empress of the Southern sea,

Hail to thy loveliness once more ! Thou gazest mournfully on me,

As mindful we have met before !

When first I saw the Polar Star

Go down behind the silver sea, And greeted thy mild light from far,

I did not know its mystery.

My Polar Star was by my side,

The star of hope was on my brow; I've lost them both beneath the tide

The cross alone is left me now.

Not such as thou, sweet Thing of stars,

Moving in queenly state on high, But wrought of stern, cold iron bars,

And borne, ah me! so wearily !

Yet something from those soft, warm skies

Seems whispering, “Thou shall yet be blest !". And gazing in thy tender eyes,

The symbol brightens on my breast.

I read at last the mystery

That slumbers in each starry gem;
The weary pathway to the sky-
The iron cross the diadem.

EMILY C. JUDSON. IN VIEW OF DEATH.

415

As down in the Sunless Retreats.

S down in the sunless retreats of the ocean A

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion
Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee,

My God, silent to thee,-
Pure, warm, silent to thee.

As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,

The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea,–
So dark when I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee,

My God, trembling to thee,
Pure, warm, trembling to thee.

THOMAS MOORE.

In View of Death.

'HE hour, the hour, the parting hour,

That takes from this dark world its power,
And lays at once the thorn and flower

On the same withering bier, my soul !
The hour that ends all earthly woes,
And gives the wearied soul repose,-
How soft, how sweet that last long close

Of mortal hope and fear, my soul !

How sweet, while on this broken lyre
The melodies of time expire,
To feel it strung with chords of fire

To praise the Immortal One, my soul !
And while our farewell tears we pour
To those we leave on this cold shore,
To teel that we shall weep no more,

Nor dwell in heaven alone, my soul !

How sweet, while, waning fast away,
The stars of this dim world decay,
To hail, prophetic of the day,

The golden dawn above, my soul !
To feel we only sleep to rise
In sunnier lands and fairer skies,
To bind again our broken ties

In ever-living love, my soul !

The hour, the hour so pure and calm,
That bathes the wounded soul in balm,
And round the pale brow twines the palm

Which shuns this wintry clime, my soul !
The hour that draws o'er earth and all
Its briers and blooms the mortal pall, –
How soft, how sweet, that evening-fall
Of fears, and grief, and time, my soul !

ANONYMOUS.

The Soul's Passing.

IT

T is ended! All is over !

Lo! the weeping mourners comeMother, father, friend, and lover

To the death-encumbered room. Lips are pressèd to the blessed

Lips that evermore are dumb.

Take her faded hand in thine

Hand that no more answereth kindly; See the eyes that wont to shine,

Uttering love, now staring blindly; Tender-hearted speech departed

Speech that echoed so divinely.

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