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I saw them wreath his temples o'er
With shining laurels then,

And mark'd his hands were stain'd with gore,
The blood of slaughter'd men.

Yet mortals magnified his name,

And placed him high on lists of fame.

Shorn of his honours, 'neath the pall
I saw the hero laid,

And wither'd in their freshness, all
His beauteous laurels fade;

His spirit, stain'd with human blood,
Was judged before the throne of God.

I heard a dying Christian speak
With rapture of his crown;
I knew that one so pure and meek
Had sought not earth's renown,
Nor wealth nor power had ever earn'd,
But worldly pomp and honour spurn'd.

"Where is thy crown?" with eager tongue
I ask'd the dying saint;

And on his trembling accents hung,
For life grew weak and faint.

"In heaven," he, pointing upward, cried;
And sweetly smiled, fell back, and died.

'Twas then I saw how pleasures waste,
And earthly glory dies;

That he is rich who here hath placed
His treasure in the skies ;-

He only rich, to whom given
A cross on earth, a crown in heaven.

His coronation none shall see,

Save those around the throne,

Whence pain and grief for ever flee,-
Where death is all unknown;

Where change comes not, nor fortune frowns;
The King of Kings the Christian crowns.

THE DEPARTED.

From "Household Verses, by Bernard Barton."

MUCH as we prize the active worth
Of those who, day by day,
Tread with us on this toilsome earth
Its devious, thorny way;

A charm, more hallow'd and profound,
By purer feelings fed,
Imagination casts around

The memory of the dead.

They form the living links-which bind
Our spirits to that state

Of being-pangless, pure, refined,
For which, in faith, we wait.

By them; through holy hope and love,
We feel, in hours serene,
Connected with a world above,
Immortal and unseen.

The dead are like the stars by day,
Withdrawn from mortal eye;
Yet holding, unperceived, their way,
In heaven's unclouded sky.
The mists of earth to us may mar
The splendour of their light;
But they, beyond sun, moon, or star,
Shine on, in glory bright.

In this brief world of chance and change,
Who has not felt and known
How much may alter and estrange
Hearts fondly deem'd our own?
But thou whom we lament awhile,
"Not lost, but gone before,"
Death cannot darken, sin defile,
Or frailty alter more.

For death its sacred seal hath set
On bright and bygone hours;
And they (whose absence we regret)
Seem more than ever OURS!

Ours, by the pledge of love, and faith,

And hope of heaven on high;

A trust triumphant over death
In immortality.

H. T. & J. Roche, Printers, 25, Hoxton-square, London.

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BEFORE Some great personages, on their coronation or inauguration into offices of splendour and dignity, a form is sometimes observed, the design of which is to prevent them from being puffed up and intoxicated by pride, by reminding them of the fleeting character of all these earthly honours; for "the fashion of the world passeth away." A wisp of straw is brought, and fire applied to it. During its rapid combustion, a person, appointed for the purpose, proclaims, "Sic transit gloria mundi,"

"Thus does the glory of the world pass on;

Bright is the blaze, but in a moment gone!" Earthly ambition has often sought the perpetuation of a name by the erection of magnificent buildings,—burial-places, it may be, or temples to the honour of fabled deities; that thus may be commemorated the piety (so sadly mistaken) of those who have in this way employed their wealth. But where are they? Many have passed away altogether, and only exist in the records of the past. Many remain, like the Pyramids of Egypt, commemorating, however, nothing but the vast power which their erection demanded, and almost defying conjecture as to their authors, or their intended uses. Some are found in ruins, suggesting only to the gifted architect, who understands the principles and rules of their construction, some idea of what they were in their pristine glory. Like VOL. XI. Second Series.

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