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Now in their turn assisting, they repay
wants and weaknesses, afford
But there are moments which he calls his own. Then, never less alone than when alone, Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves-not dead-but gone before, , He gathers round him ; and revives at will Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still That come not now at dreary intervalsBut where a light as from the Blessed falls, A light such guests bring ever-pure and holyLapping the soul in sweetest melancholy !
-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) To live with others than to think on them!
And now behold him up the hill ascending, Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending; Sustained, excited, till his course is run, By deeds of virtue done or to be done. When on his couch he sinks at length to rest, Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed, Those by the World shunned ever as unblest, At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, But whom he sought out, sitting desolate, Come and stand round—the widow with her child, As when she first forgot her tears and smiled! They, who watch by him, see not; but he sees, Sees and exults— Were ever dreams like these ? They, who watch by him, hear not; but he hears, And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears !
'Tis past! That hand we grasped, alas, in vain! Nor shall we look upon his face again! But to his closing eyes, for all were there, Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year We shall remember with a fond delight The words so precious which we heard to-night ;
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,
Then was the drama ended. Not till then,
opes the portals of Eternity.
But now 'tis time to go ; the day is spent ; And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent—though like ours perchance Busy and full of life and circumstance ; Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few ; And, as the sun goes round—a sun not oursWhile from her lap another Nature showers
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire,
P. 80, 1. 8.
Stand still to gaze,
See the Iliad, l. xviii. v. 496.
P. 82, l. 17.
Our pathway leads but to a precipice; See Bossuet, Sermon sur la Résurrection.
P. 83, I. 4.
We fly; no resting for the foot we find; “I have considered,” says Solomon, “ all the works that are under the sun; and behold all is vanity and vexation of spirit.” But who believes it, till death tells it us? It is death alone that can suddenly make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the account of the rich man, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity; and they acknowledge it.
O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou