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The morning may break

O'er the valley in gladness;
But the eyes cannot wake

That dispelled all thy sadness.

The evening may come,

But its fall shall endear not;

For the

steps that came home

In the dusk thou shalt hear not.

Weep, Emmeline, weep,

And no tongue shall reprove thee;

Weep, Emmeline, weep,

For the friends that did love thee.

THE DEAD.

WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.

W. Knox.

Wild as the rocking of a bark upon a stormy sea,

Are the wanderings of the spirit, through the mists of re

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And yet there is an unity, though indistinct and dim, Like the reflected rainbow-hues on the watery skies that swim.

A veil of sadness had passed o'er, my spirit like a cloud, Or as around the lonely dead, is drawn the winding shroud;

I passed on in my mournfulness, and in the churchyard's

gloom,

I sat me down to meditate upon an ancient tomb.

I looked around as if to ease my spirit's deep distress, But Nature's self appeared to join, in my sad weariness; The sun was passing to his rest, the clouds were sailing by,

And the wind had spread his wings, upon the fretwork of the sky.

His wings were shaking heavily, and sadly sighed the

trees,

You mought have thought that a spirit passed upon

fearful breeze

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the

For the grass bowed down upon the earth, and trembled

as with fear,

And I shuddered as the rustling sounds came sweeping

past my ear.

Oh it was very loneliness, yet I could not choose but stay, Though the awful thoughts that o'er me came, filled me

with dark dismay;

I could not choose but look, upon the tombs so lowly laid, I could not choose but think upon the silent and the

dead!

Oh ye dead! Oh ye dead! ye of the visage pale,
Ye of the place of vision in Hinnom's lonely vale,
How wonderful a tale is in your prison-house concealed,
A tale we may not cannot know, till all things are re-
1vealed.

Ye fell away as wavelets, from the rolling sea of time, One day was heard the sounds of joy-the next your funeral chime ;

Ye fell away in the rush of years, your day of life passed

o'er,

And the place that once hath known ye well, now knoweth ye no more!

Yet though ye sleep the dreamless sleep, the rustling grass doth wave,

And fall the heavy churchyard dews, like tears upon your

grave;

But I love not to look on your tombs, nor the heaped up earth around,

For an awful tale of mortality,-it speaks without a sound.

I love to look on the lonely sea, ye slumber sweetest there, No foot there spurns your resting-place, or lays your dry bones bare:

So gaze we on the sea- till mingled with the soul,
The restless billows and the sense together wildly roll.

Yet let us think of glory as we look upon the dead,
And think not that in endless sleep, their bones at rest are

laid:

For when the sun of faith hath risen on the ocean dark of

sleep,

Their dreamy shades in its light will rise forbidding us to

weep.

Ye of the lovely forms!-where is your glory now?
The charnel mould is on each hand, the death-sweat on

each brow:

Arise, arise ye glorious ones! better be walking dead, Than in corruption's horrors to repose your low-laid head.

Ye of the mighty arm-how powerless ye lie,

Ye of the lip of eloquence are darkly slumbering by,

Yet the angels blast shall the mighty ones, with strength again inspire,

And to the eloquent be given- tongues cloven as of fire.'

But oh where are the dearest ones, we cherished above all? No voice comes from the narrow bed, no sound from the dreary pall;

'Tis silence, for no sound may pass from yonder lifeless clay, Save the echoes of the hollow tombs, that answer where they may.

There's a language in your silence, it breaks on the mental

ear,

And the quivering lip of sorrow makes its accents to ap

pear,

'Ashes to ashes,' Think ye it may speak of further trust? It cannot pierce the charnel's gloom, and there 'tis dust to dust.'

I looked around me yet again—the sun had sunk in night, The moon poured down her cataract of pale and flooding light:

Like the bright sun's fall are the living ones that sink beneath the earth,

But like the glorious moon will rise in heaven a second

birth.

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