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 feverish 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 opening 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! 3.2 3022 THE HOUR OF DEATH. We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, Is it when spring's first gale Coines forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 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! 3. MRS. HEMANS. REFLECTIONS ON A SKULL. If with persuasive mildness bold, Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with its envied rubies shine? To hew the rock or wear the gem, Can nothing now avail to them; But if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, Those hands shall strike the lyre of praise, And high the palm of triumph raise. Avails not whether bare or shod, ANONYMOUS. |