In which the hand of Nature hath engraved
The face and features of our honoured king,
Be viewed with love by every English eye-
Be held in reverence by all English hearts-
And stand the monument of a virtuous king,
Until our present Earth shall change her form,
Or, with the universal world, shall fade

Away, and vanish into nothing.

For a Tomb, in the Burial Ground of Marseilles, erected by a Mother to her Daughter, consisting of a broken Column, with these words" Une tendre mére à sa fille Amélie!"

AH! thus, my child, thy life was snapped,
A graceful Column broken!

That youth hath not death's dart escaped,
This is, alas! the token.

I plant thee as a budding Rose,
With cypress o'er thee waving;

Thy flower in fields etherial blows,

Thy leaves Heaven's dews are laving.

IV.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

BURIAL AT SEA.

BY AN AMERICAN GENTLEMAN 26.

FROM his room to the deck they brought him drest
For his funeral rites, at his own request,

With his boots, and stock, and garments on,
And nought but the breathing spirit gone;

For he wished a child might come and lay
An unstartled hand upon his clay.

Then they wrapped his corse in the tarry sheet,
To the dead, as Araby's spices, sweet,

And prepared him to seek the depths below,
Where waves never beat, nor tempests blow.

No steeds with their nodding plumes were here,
No sabled hearse, and no coffined bier,
To bear with parade and pomp away

The dead to sleep with his kindred clay.

But the little group, a silent few,

His companions, mixed with the hardy crew, Stood thoughtful around till a prayer was said O'er the corse of the deaf, unconscious dead. Then they bore his remains to the vessel's side, And committed them safe to the dark blue tide: One sullen plunge-and the scene is o'er

The sea rolled on as it rolled before.

In that classical sea, whose azure vies

With the green of its shore, and the blue of its

skies,

In some pearly cave, in some coral cell,
Oh! the dead shall sleep as sweetly, as well

As if shrined in the pomp of Parian tombs,

Where the east and the south breathe their rich

perfumes.

Nor forgotten shall be the humblest one,

Though he sleep in the watery waste alone,

When the Trump of the Angel sounds with dread,

And the Sea, like the Earth, gives up his dead.

V.

BURIAL ON LAND.

LIVING he passed the devouring deep,
Nor slept in its bosom his last long sleep.
We buried his corse near the rocky shore,
But his ear was deaf to the ocean's roar :
No Romish requiem, slowly sung,

Soothed his soul to rest, no bell was rung:
But the Minister read, in his native tongue,
Words that from death extract the sting;
And a heavenly voice seemed sweetly to sing:-
"Blessed are they, though in grave-clothes drest,
Who die in the Lord, from their labours rest *."

No pomp paraded his "coffined bier :"

But stranger-friends, though they shed no tear,

"I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are they which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours."

Rev. xiv. 13. Burial Service.