By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast, They, cherished, cower amid the purple blooms.

But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale, The house of prayer itself,-no place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day,

Than does the field of graves, the land of rest :-
Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll,
The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims
The service of the tomb; the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near;
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,
I am the resurrection and the life.

Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend

Is

gone,

dead in her prime of years :-'twas she,

The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,

With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;

With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,

That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed

For longer life, with heart resigned to die,—
Rejoiced to die; for happy visions blessed

Her voyage's last days *, and hovering round,

Alighted on her soul, giving presage

That heaven was nigh:

-O what a burst

Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy

Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed:

But all her loveliness is not yet flown:

She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,

In which the wintry stars all bright appear,

Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,

Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.

* Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence seems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds, at first hovering round the ship, and then lighting on the rigging.

Again that knell! The slow procession stops:
The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick-embossed
With melancholy ornaments,-(the name,

The record of her blossoming age), appears
Unveiled, and on it dust to dust is thrown,

The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound!

Upon the lowered bier the shovelled clay

Falls fast, and fills the void.

But who is he,

That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye,

As if he coveted the closing grave?

And he does covet it, his wish is death:

The dread resolve is fixed; his own right-hand

Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest

No peace, no comfort, brings his woe-worn spirit:
Self-cursed, the hallowed dome he dreads to enter;

He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope;
Annihilation is his only heaven.

Loathsome the converse of his friends: he shuns

B

The human face; in every careless eye
Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk.
Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note
Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws:

Or far in moors, remote from house or hut,

Where animated nature seems extinct,

Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks The quiet slumber of the level waste;

Where vegetation's traces almost fail,

Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts

Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks

Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,

There, on the heathless moss outstretched, he broods O'er all his ever-changing plans of death :

The time, place, means, sweep like a stormy rack, In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul,

The poignard, and the opium draught, that brings Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm

Between the act and consequence, the flash

Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death ;-
The ruined tower perched on some jutting rock,
So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below,
The breath might take its flight in midway air,-
This pleases for a while; but on the brink,
Back from the topling edge his fancy shrinks
In horror; sleep at last his breast becalms,—
He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes,
Resigning to despair his dream of joy.

Then hope, faint hope, revives-hope, that Despair
May to his aid let loose the demon Frenzy,

To lead scared conscience blindfold o'er the brink
Of self-destruction's cataract of blood.

Most miserable, most incongruous wretch !
Dar'st thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God,
Yet dreadest to approach his holy place!

O dare to enter in! may be some word,
Or sweetly-chaunted strain, will in thy heart
Awake a chord in unison with life.