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On the Death of Mr. William Galbraith,
All that's bright must fade
The fairest still the fleetest.
Farewell to thee, William; farewell to thy smile, And thy bright-beaming eye, full of gladness the
Thy beauties are faded-departed thy bloom;
We boast not thy virtues; the sad glistening eye— The tender heart-bursting proclaimed in each sigh, These, these are the eulogies grav'n on the heart, Far deeper than marble;-they ne'er can depart.
And sure if the spirits of mortals made blest
Dare to visit the regions their hearts lov'd the best, Even now o'er his sad friends in silence he steals, And the lessons he taught to their memory reveals.
We weep not thy lot, for we know thou art gone To the mansions prepared since the world begun ; We know that the crown shall encircle thy brow, And 'twere useless, lov'd angel, to weep for thee now.
Yet oft when the sun gilds with glory the West, And we point to that sky as the home of thy rest, We shall feel that on this earth we meet not again, And one bright drop of sorrow shall fall for thee
Through mighty Nature's handy works,
There's nought in all her limits wide
The warrior is called to the red field of fight,
But there is a check to his fiery zeal,
And he trembles to think on the morrow; One gentle sigh and one tender appeal
Hath doomed his stout heart to its sorrow.
The seaman nor dreams of the perilous main,
The warrior thinks of the lily hand
And the seaman looks to the bright green land
Written under pressure of great bodily affliction.
'And the prayer of Faith shall save the sick; and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.-JAMES, 5c. 15v.
Oh God of love, and life, and truth!
A sinner who has scorned thy ways,
Oh yes; thy Holy Word declares
Subdued in passion, mind, and will.
For me he suffered, bled, and died.
Where, unbelief, is now thy power
To soothe the heart, to calm despair? Can pleasure past give one short hour Of respite to corroding care?
Oh, vain deceit !-the soul must link
Its hopes upon some stronger chain,
While lingering on the fearful brink
Where are the Social maxims now,
At such a time what stay have we,
We have the promise Jesus gave,-
Almighty Father! God of Peace!
On thee with earnest voice I call; My sins from thy great book erase, Save the repentant prodigal!
I too with joy exclaim
"Thro' Death's dark valley though I stray,
I still shall call upon thy name
Thy rod and staff shall be my stay."
A Printer's Song.
Sung at an Anniversary of the Manchester Typographical Society.
The sun is set, and the moon is up,
But the colour's pure that fills the cup,-
The barley press'd
Yields blood the best
That corn or fruit can give ;
Of the bright sun's streak,-
Even kings might envy now our case,
The recreant care away.
Can mortal mount
To a clearer fount
For a primer draught than this,
Like etherial dew
Upon bells of blue,
Which the morning sunbeams kiss.
Then here's to him of the bearded corn!
We love his smiling eye;
At close of day, or the break of morn,
From the goblet who could fly?