nd shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thought of parting;
For part they must: body and soul must part;
Fond couple! linked more close than wedded pair.
_The Grave_. B. BLAIR.

While man is growing, life is in decrease;
And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun.
_Night Thoughts, Night V_. DR. E. YOUNG.

Put out the light, and then--put out the light.
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunningest pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,
That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither.
_Othello, Act v. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
_Night Thoughts, Night V_. DR. E. YOUNG.

Death aims with fouler spite
At fairer marks.
_Divine Poems_. F. QUARLES.

The ripest fruit first falls.
_Richard II., Act ii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.
_The Excursion, Bk. I_ W. WORDSWORTH.

Happy they!
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,
Break with the first fall.
_Don Juan, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
_A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson_. W.C. BRYANT.

"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore.
_Don Juan, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
_Epitaph on an Infant_. S.T. COLERIDGE.

Thank God for Death! bright thing with dreary name.
_Benedicam Dominos_. SARAH C. WOOLSEY _(Susan Coolidge)_.

But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
_To a Young Lady_. W. WORDSWORTH.

Death is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth our taking:
Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner
Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down.
_The Fair Penitent, Act v. Sc 1_. N. ROWE.

Death! to the happy thou art terrible,
But how the wretched love to think of thee,
O