meet out to them.

Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches.. Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the remains of the angel cousins.

Lines, Written at the Close of 1842.

CONTENTS

  Hark! I hear the midnight bell, Pealing forth its funeral knell; Now its tones sound loud and clear-- Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear, Solemn and slow, they seem to fall, Upon the listening ear of all.

And lo! extended on the 'bier, The form of the departed year Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud, Hastening to join the sable crowd Of years--that passed before the flood, And left their pathway stained with blood; For oh, what horrors must appear, Written on each departed year? The fearful tales each will disclose, The God of Heaven only knows.

Ardent and bright this year arose,-- Pictured its joys and hid its woes, Painted gay paths bestrown with flowers, And balmy skies, and sunny hours, Promised some pleasures, ever new, If pleasures' path we would pursue. But soon the path became uptorn, Instead of flowers we find the thorn: And yonder sky, so blue and deep, Where golden stars their vigils keep,-- Was soon by frowning clouds concealed; And lightnings flash'd, and thunders peal'd The golden sun soon sank to rest, Behind the curtains of the west, And left to darkness his domain, With midnight howling o'er the plain; And those who followed her gay train, Found pleasure's path to end in pain.

For who e'er drank without alloy, From the painted cup of joy? Just as we seize some radiant prize, That long has danc'd before our eyes, And raise the goblet to our lip, Its honied promises to sip. Some lurking scorpion's venom'd dart Sends poison rankling to the heart. But now the year its race has run, Its promises and labors done; The grave has closed o'er its remains, 'Till the last trumpet breaks its chains; Then must its mysteries be unroll'd, And all its hidden deeds be told.

How many hail'd last New Year's day, That slumber now in fellow clay. This too, perhaps, may be our doom Before another year shall come.

The things of earth may fade 

 Prev. P 66/198 next