his couch of rest!

Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

THE DYING HOUR.

Why does the day, whose date is brief,
Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
Why does the brown autumnal leaf
Hang restless on its parent tree?
Why does the rose, with drooping head,
Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
Their golden time of life had fled--
It was their dying hour!

Why does the swan's melodious song
Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
Their time was past--they lived to die--
It was their dying hour!

Why does the dolphin change its hues,
Like that aerial child of light?
Why does the cloud of night refuse
To meet the morn with beams so bright?
Why does the man we saw to-day,
To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
All earth can give must pass away--
It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
The mournful music of the mind,
The ech