The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, In vain-they grow too near the dead. Yet here, Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, The brier rose, and upon the broken turf That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth Her ruddy, pouting fruit. "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." Он, deem not they are blest alone The Power who pities man, has shown The light of smiles shall fill again And weary hours of woe and pain There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,— Though with a pierced and broken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God has marked each sorrowing day For all his children suffer here. "NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." WHEN he, who, from the scourge of wrong, Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, Saw the fair region, promised long, God made his grave, to men unknown, And laid the aged seer alone To slumber while the world grows old. Thus still, whene'er the good and just Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, A WALK AT SUNSET. WHEN insect wings are glistening in the beam Wander amid the mild and mellow light; Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky. Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird. |