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And useful cares, so needed and so loved, While withered forms, that scarce can drag their limbs, And spent their stores of blessings long ago, Still bear the burden of infirmest age, Helpless and hopeless! Who can note unawed God's deep-sealed secret? Why was he not left To run his tranquil course of seventy years, And then, all duty done, reposing wait, As in the twilight of a summer's day The rustic lingers at his cottage door, And to the pressure of Time's heavy hand Yield gently, sinking to the grave as men Withdrawing to their chambers seek their rest, In Sleep's protecting bosom?

NEIGHBOR.

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So, last night,

In ripe old age, and ever gentle faith,

That old man passed away; life's twilight calm
Still beautiful around him; no more toil
For him on earth, and every hope in heaven.

FATHER.

What old man speak you of, whose sun has set
In timely beauty thus, while yonder orb
Is stricken headlong from its noonday height?

NEIGHBOR.

You know old Father Simon; long withdrawn
From charge of holy things, but loving still
The hallowed office which so long he held,
An humble priest. A messenger was sent
To tell the venerable man that death

Had robbed our altar of its youthful priest,
And lead the elder to the vacant rite.
Guess what a thrill of consternation struck
The village heart when he, returning, told
That Father Simon, too, had died last night!

Therefore it is that every sound is mute; the church
Is closed; the scattered flock, that should have thronged
The house of prayer, amazed, and pale, retreat,
And mournful silence broods o'er all the scene.
I, too, would fain retire. I have no heart
For human intercourse to-day. Farewell!

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From early morn,

Through all the heat and burden of the noon,
Unresting, always at the task he loved, -
He labored on, till round him gathering eve
Began to cast its shades. The wearied man
Now sat him down to rest; about him cast
A placid look on his accomplished task,

And smiled that all was done. What had he more
To live for? Pleasures, hopes, and useful toils,
For him there none remained, except in heaven.
There they awaited him; and there his trust
Serenely fixed, the gentle summons came,

And called him home

"Go to thy rest, old man!

Peace waits thee in the Father's house, on earth

Unknown. Go, we have known and loved thee long;
We can but weep to miss thee; but our tears
Are tears of hope as well as fond regret
Of joy yet more than grief; of sympathy
With thy rejoicing in thy new-found bliss."

But other feelings wake at W******'s death. Gone, in his prime not two score years yet told The vigor of brave manhood in his limbs;

And youth's frank hopefulness upon his brow;
As suddenly as if from this green bank,
Just where I sit and gaze upon the flowers
That lift their smiling beauty 'mong the grass,
And deck the verdant hills with countless hues,
Now, as I look, some hidden fount of fire
Should spout, like Etna's flaming torrent, forth,
And in an instant desolate the scene.

Gone, in his prime! In him how many homes Their light have lost! how many poor their stay! The young a counsellor the old a staffThe flock of Christ a shepherd kind and true. Yes, we have lost a friend; but heaven has gained One more inhabitant; and Sabbath choirs to-day, With loud rejoicing, shout him welcome home.

A WINTER SCENE.

AN EXTRACT FROM A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

January 13, 1829.

O, WOULD you could see, since the last week's rain,
What splendor adorns our grove and plain!
For it froze as it fell, and the drizzling sleet
Cast thick o'er the earth an icy sheet;

The crusted trees in their glory appear,
Each like a crystal chandelier,

On whose brilliant jewels the sunbeams glance,
As their limbs in the light breeze twinkle and dance;
And every twig and spire of grass

Is a splendid prism of solid glass,

Sparkling and flashing in day's broad glare,
With all the hues of the rainbow there.
O, 'tis a gorgeous sight to behold

The fields all strewed with rubies and gold,

And emeralds, bright with their rich green rays,
And diamonds, that fiercely burn and blaze,
And sapphires and pearls profusely strown,
Till a more magnificent view is shown,
Than the garden of gems in the Eastern tale
Which Aladdin found in the secret vale.

THE WATERFALL AT CATSKILL.

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM IN THE HOTEL,

July 2, 1826.

BOLD, bold, and beautiful, the headlong wave Leaps from the dizzy height-in floods of foam Broken and glittering - flinging up its clouds Of playful mist, that meet the wanton sun, And take all hues, and deck the shattered stream In floating rainbows, that, like fairy forms. Before the dreamer's eye, flit here and there, Now bright, now faded. Thus it plunges on, Roaring and restless, till the gulf profound Spreads wide its peaceful bosom, and the vexed, Impetuous torrent slumbers in the shade. Such be my quiet, when life's troubled tide Shall reach the vale serene of tranquil age! So it has been for ages-so shall be For ages yet to come. Years roll on years, And find that sound and motion still unchanged. Things that have life decay; but thou, fair rill,So like a living thing, that yet art none, Thou changest not. The forests round thee die; The beasts that roam them perish in their shade; The solid rock, thy bed, is worn away;

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