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THE ROSE.

How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field;

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond cares to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well-doing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

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SOFTLY the tuneful shepherd leads
The Hebrew flocks to flow'ry meads :
He marks their path with notes divine,
While fountains spring with oil and wine.

Rivers of peace attend his song,
And draw their milky train along :
He jars; and, lo! the flints are broke,
But honey issues from the rock.

When kindling with victorious fire,
He shakes his lance across the lyre;
The lyre resounds unknown alarms,
And sets the Thunderer in arms.

Behold the God! the Almighty King
Rides on a tempest's glorious wing:
His ensigns lighten round the sky,
And moving legions sound on high.

Ten thousand cherubs wait his course,
Chariots of fire and flaming horse:
Earth trembles; and her mountains flow,
At his approach, like melting snow.

But who those frowns of wrath can draw,
That strike heaven, earth, and hell, with awe?
Red lightning from his eyelids broke;
His voice was thunder, hail, and smoke.

He spake; the cleaving waters fled,
And stars beheld the ocean's bed:
While the great Master strikes his lyre,
You see the frighted floods retire :

In heaps the frighted billows stand,
Waiting the changes of his hand :
He leads his Israel through the sea,
And wat'ry mountains guard their way.

Turning his band with sovereign sweep,
He drowns all Egypt in the deep :
Then guides the tribes, a glorious band,
Through deserts to the promis'd land.

Here camps, with wide-embattl'd force,
Here gates and bulwarks stop their course,
He storms the mounds, the bulwark falls,
The harp lies strew'd with ruin'd walls.

See his broad sword flies o'er the strings,
And mows down nations with their kings:
From every chord his bolts are hurl'd,
And vengeance smites the rebel world.

Lo! the great poet shifts the scene,
And shows the face of God serene.
Truth, meekness, peace, salvation, ride,
With guards of justice at his side.

THOMAS PARNELL.

BORN 1679-DIED 1717.

THOMAS PARNELL, a religious and moral poet, was born in Dublin in 1679. He was bred to the church, and obtained the archdeaconry of Clogher in his twenty-sixth year. Parnell married on obtaining this living, but soon lost his wife and fell into low spirits. He often visited England; was the friend of Pope and Swift; and possessed those talents which give delight in society. He obtained farther promotion; but, after the death of his wife, his mind never recovered its tone; and he died, in his thirty-eighth year, at Chester, on his way home to Ireland. Parnell has found a warm admirer in Mr Campbell:-"His poetry," says he, " is like a flower that has

been trained and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air."

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest."

Those, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away ;)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,

"Think, mortal, what it is to die !"

Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin ; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones:"When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a king of Fears am I!

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