THE COMMON LOT. ONCE, in the flight of ages past, There liv'd a man :-and WHO WAS HE? Unknown the regions of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, The bounding pulse, the languid limb, He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er; He lov'd, but whom he lov'd, the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of HIм afford no other trace Than this,-THERE LIVED A MAN! MONTGOMERY. THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth! The banquet hath its hour, ; Its fev'rish hour of mirth, and song, and wine There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine! Youth and the op'ning rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those` That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey! Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! HEMANS. TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY. "Thou thy worldly task hast done." SHAKSPEARE. HIGH peace to the soul of the dead, From the dream of the world she has gone; On the stars in her glory to tread, To be bright in the blaze of the throne. In youth she was lovely, and time, When her rose with the cypress he twined, Left the heart all the warmth of its prime, Left her eye all the light of her mind. The summons came forth-and she died! Our weakness may weep o'er her bier, To rejoice in the joy of its King. CADLY. SECOND PSALM. WHEREFORE do the heathen wage Haughty chiefs and rulers proud God, and his anointed son! "Let us break these bands in twain, But the Highest, with disdain, Sees and mocks their vain array. "High on Zion I prepare, (Thu he speaks,) a regal throne, Thou, my Prince, my chosen heir, Rise and claim it as thine own.' "Son of God, with God the same, "Pomp or state dost thou demand? Ye who spurn his righteous sway, Ere that dreadful bolt descends, Kiss the sceptre he extends, R. GRANT. ODE TO SPRING. Now Spring returns, but not to me returns Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind, And count the silent moments as they pass. The winged moments, whose unstaying speed |