Waves! what have ye heard on that ancient coast
Where Egypt the might of her fame did boast,
Where the statue of Memnon saluted the morn,
And the pyramids tower in their giant scorn?
"We have heard the curse of the slave-ship's crew,
And the shriek of the chain'd as the shores withdrew."
Stars! what have ye seen with the glancing eye
From your burning thrones in the sapphire-sky!
"We have mark'd young hope as it brightly glow'd;
On Afric's breast whence the blood-drop flow'd,
And we chanted the hymn which we sang at first,
When the sun from the midnight of chaos burst."
DEATH.
"Death is the night of that day which is given us to work in. Happy the soul which Death finds rich, not in gold, furniture, learning, reputation, or barren purposes and desires, but in good works."
Bishop Wilson's Sacra Privata.
Chill'd by the piercing blast,
Or faint with vertic heat,
The wearied laborer hails the night,
And finds its slumber sweet,
While they whom idle years
Of luxury impair,
Toss on the restless couch, or meet
The dream of terror there.
The rich man moves in pomp,
To him the world is dear,
And every treasure twists a tie
To bind him stronger here,
