They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died- - ah, they died and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Yea! Hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, THE HOUR OF DEATH FELICIA HEMANS 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, oh, 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, but all are thine. A time for softer tears, 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 ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? They have one season, all are ours to die. Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air, Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth, — and thou art there. 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, oh, Death! THE day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces, let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonored, grant us in the end the gift of sleep. Thomas Gray was born in London in 1716. He wrote but little poetry, the " Elegy" being the most noted of his poems, if not the best. His "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," "Hymn to Adversity," "The Progress of Poesy," and "The Bard" others most read. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. are the Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. |