Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,— Though with a pierced and broken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God has marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. "NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." WHEN he, who, from the scourge of wrong, Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, Saw the fair region, promised long, God made his grave, to men unknown, To slumber while the world grows old. Thus still, whene'er the good and just Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, A WALK AT SUNSET. WHEN insect wings are glistening in the beam Wander amid the mild and mellow light; Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky. Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. So, with the glories of the dying day, Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away Tenderly mingled ;-fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, The warrior generations came and passed, Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, And with them the old tale of better days, And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, And where the night-fire of the quivered band Farewell! but thou shalt come again—thy light States fallen-new empires built upon the old But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men F |