DEATH. 335 



hearth-rug. One of Mrs. Marsden's substantial legs was inside the 

 fender, and one of her hands occupied in keeping her garments aloof 

 from the fire. Mrs. Dewitt " swam, swan-like/' to her seat ; the 

 other ladies took chairs, and I had the felicity of being able to locate 

 myself in the immediate vicinity of the black velvet gown. About 

 half an hour after, the footman burst into the room, pompously an- 

 nouncing " Mrs. Marsden's carriage ;" then approaching the lady's 

 ear, he whispered, " your servant says, ma'am, that he can't find 

 never a chariot, ma'am, not nowhere on the stand, ma'am." " Well," 

 exclaimed Mrs. M., feeling that the announcement had been exten- 

 sively overheard, (f I do dislike those coaches ; one don't see where 

 one's going, and I am so afraid of an accident don't you prefer a 

 chariot, Miss Wallace? but I forgot, your mother keeps her own 

 coach now." Miss Wallace reddened up to her temples. Observing 

 this, Mrs. Marsden remarked in a semi-whisper to Mrs. Oldfield, 

 while shouldering on her cloak, " I don't see why one should feel 

 ashamed of not riding in one's own coach." The other guests gra- 

 dually departed with gracious smiles from host and hostess, arid just 

 as the Temple bell tolled one I found myself in the solitude of my 

 own chamber. 



-L&X &sd e. 



DEATH 



-91 91011! 6 ' 



'MiD winter's frowns, or autumn's sighs, 



Or balmy summer's breath; 

 'Mid all her smiles, when genial spring 

 O'er nature waves her flowery wing, 



We still remember Death ! 



When life is young, and glides away 



In hours of fond delight, 

 And all the joys of rapture's dream 

 In boyhood's eye exhaustless seem, 



The Grave still haunts our sight ! 



The drearn of love that gently breathes 



O'er youth a fragrant bloom ; 

 Like all the balm that greets the sky, 

 When morning opes her dewy eye, 



But flits above the Tomb. 



In vain we join the festive throng, 



In vain doth music swell ; 

 A sigh escapes with every word, 

 And far above the song is heard 



The distant funeral knell. 

 Strike high the lyre ! a gayer song ! 



Awake ! thy loudest breath ! 

 In vain ! In vain ! It speaks again, 

 Nor pealing chord, nor choral strain, 



Can drown the voice of Death. 



It shakes the palace haunts the cell 



Is heard through all the air ; 

 The bones of myriads fill the ground, 

 And every tree that waves around, 



Conceals a Sepulchre ! M. 



