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Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanesence! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgement morning,
When the great trumpets' sound shall shrill thee with its warning!
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
In living virtue! that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. HORACE SMITH.
LINES SAID TO BE THE LAST COMPOSED BY MILTON.
I am old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown; Afflicted and deserted of my kind;
Yet I am not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not that I no longer see;
O merciful one!
When men are farthest, then thou art most When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear.
Thy glorious face
Its leaning towards me; and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-placeAnd there is no more night.
my bended knee
I recognise thy purpose, clearly shown: My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself Thyself alone.
I have nought to fear;
This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; Beneath it I am almost sacred, here
Can come no evil thing.
Oh! I seem to stand,
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath
Wrap't in the radiance of thy sinless Land,
Visions come and go;
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me From Angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,
[eyesWhen Heaven is opening on my sightless When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, The earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime,
My being fills with rapture-waves of Roll in upon my spirit-strains sublime Break over me, unsought.
Go in the sunny morning,
And when the stars shine bright;
Go when the day is closing,
Go when the dew-drop sparkles,
Go in the warmth of friendship,
And on the sabbath day,
Go in the hour of sadness,
And when thy words run free;
And when thy thoughts are gay, Go when earth's joys are fading, Go, and in secret pray.
Go when thy cheeks are blooming,
Go when thy Saviour smites thee,
THE THREE SONS.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness, is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful