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النشر الإلكتروني

LXXX.

SUNSET.

The golden foot-prints of departing Day

Are fading from the ocean silently,

And Twilight, stealing onward, balves the sky; One after one they fade in light away, While, with a thousand songs, the Earth doth say

Farewell, uplifting all her mountains high,

To catch the last reflections ere they die,
As, one by one, their peaks grow cold and grey.
Yon orb, that hangs upon the ocean's rim,

Looks, Janus-like, both back and forward too, And, while it fades here to Earth's evening-bymn,

It brightens, from afar, o'er regions new, Unto the songs of Morning, raised to Him,

Who thus 'twixt night and day the great line drew!

LXXXI.

SOCRATES.

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Of making many books there is no end ; and much

study is an affliction of the flesh.

Thou, mighty Heathen, wert not so bereft
Of heavenly helps to thy great-hearted deeds,
That thou shouldst dig for truths in broken creeds,
'Mid the loose sands of four old empires left.
Motions and shadows dimly glowing fell
On thy broad soul from forms invisible.
With its plain grandeur, simple, calm, and free,
What wonder was it that thy life should merit
Sparkles of grace, and angel ministry,
With jealous glimpses of the world of spirit ?
Greatest and best in this—that thy pure mind,
Upon its saying mission all intent,
Scorned the untruth of leaving books behind,
To claim for thine what through thy lips was sent.

LXXXIT.

ON THE RAMPARTS AT ANGOULÊME.

Why art thou speechless, O thou setting Sun ?
Speak to this earth, speak to this listening scene,
Where Charente flows among the meadows green,
And in his gilded waters, one by one,
The inverted minarets of poplar quake
With expectation, until thou shalt break
The intolerable silence. See ! he sinks
Without a word ; and his ensanguined bier
Is vacant in the west, while far and near
Behold ! each coward shadow eastward shrinks.
Thou dost not strive, O sun, nor dost thou cry
Amid thy cloud-built streets ; but meek and still,
Thou dost the type of Jesus best fulfil,
A noiseless revelation in the sky.

LXXXIII,

AD MATREM.

Oft in the after days, when thou and I
Have fallen from the scope of human view,
When, both together, under the sweet sky
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew,
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland,
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ;
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand,
And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace.
Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays,
Saying, 'What love unto her son she bore !'
Make this addition to thy perfect praise,

Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame
Shall link my love unto thine honoured name.

LXXXIV.

IN PROSPECT OF DEATH,

WHEN I shall die—and be it late or soon

Let merciful memories be my only shroud.

Think me a light veiled in a morning cloud ; Living to knowledge,-like a finished moon, Though nothing here, to other lands a boon :

Nor let my death give triumph to the proud,

By your weak tears : be happy with the crowd, Who, spite of woe, are seldom out of tune. Wise in the common instinct, be ye glad : There's some redemption in the doom of death

That cuts us from new sins-sweet mercy's plan. Yet, if for me you be sincerely sad, Do this sweet homage to my valued breath

Ease the sad burden of some living man !

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