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But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my head had passed,
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But, when I speak, thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave —
And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking, too, of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As Fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

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RULE V. WHO, WHICH, when in the nominative case, and the pronoun THAT, when used for WHO or WHICH, require a short pause before them.

Death is the season
Nothing is in vain


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Seasons of Prayer.

To prayer! to prayer!- for the morning breaks,
And Earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all, below and above-
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.

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To prayer! for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on.
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.


To prayer! for the day that God has blessed
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,


And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss, when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows!
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow:
O, what are earth and its pleasures now?
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye, that`upward bends ;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;
For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where He shall reign,
Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again."

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransomed shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

Awake! awake! and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.

To Him, who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.




RULE VI. When a pause is necessary at prepositions and conjunctions, it must be before and not after them.



We must not conform to the world. . . . in their amusements and diversions.

It is in society only . . . . that we can relish those pure, delicious joys which embellish and gladden the life of man.

The Hermit. BEATTIE.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;

'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself, or with nature, at war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay;

Mourn, sweetest complainer; man calls thee to mourn; O, soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendor again: But man's faded glory what change shall renew?

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

""Twas thus, by the light of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

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