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FLOBRA’S ALBUM. 

Poplar, White. 
Its leaves, like Time, in constant motion. 
TIME. 
We cannot stay thy footsteps, Time! 
Thy flight no hand may bind, 
Save His whose foot is on the sea, 
Whose voice is on the wind ; 
Yet when the stars from their bright spheres, 
Like living flames are hurled, 
Thy mighty form will sink beneath 
The ruins of a world! 
And then it seemed. 
As if from every mound and sepulchre 
In that lone cemetery, —from the sward 
Where slept the span-long infant, to the grave 
Of him who dandled on his wearied knee 
Three generations, —from the turf that veiled 
The wreck of mouldering beauty, to the bed. 
Where shrank the loathed beggar, — rose a cry 
From all those habitants of silence, — “ Yea! 
There is a time to die.” 















Mars. L. H. SicouRNEY. 
















