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formed of his situation, the first wish that he expressed to the friend who conversed with him, was, that a knowledge of his danger, if it were not known to them already, might be kept from his other friends as long as possible. During the remainder of his sickness he repeatedly expressed his habitual faith. He spake as he had done in health, of his trust in the providence and mercy of God, and of his belief of the high destination of those who endeavour to fulfil the purposes of their existence. It produced a feeling almost of cheerfulness to hear him talk of death, and of his hope of meeting again the friends who had gone before him from this world. The efficacy of his religious faith gave him mental strength in that state of bodily weakness and disease which renders us sensible to the slightest impressions. He expressed those feelings which are produced only by correct notions of Christianity, having their full operation in a comprehensive and intelligentmind.

In speaking of meeting again those whom he had known on earth, he mentioned the name of Mr. Buckminster. It is now a second time since the commencement of this work, that I have been called to record the death of one with whom I was then particularly connected; with whom I had a more than common agreement of opinion and sympathy of feeling; and whose loss has been at

tended by such circumstances of a public and private nature as to make it most deeply felt. To me the retrospect is very solemn and affecting. In returning to my usual studies and pursuits, I cannot but feel something of solitude and desertion. But it is no common privilege to have known such men; to have been honored with the regard of one of them, and to have been most intimately connected with the other. To me Mr. Eliot was a friend most warm, most sincere, and most disinterested. I may be permitted to pay this tribute to the dead, and to claim this high honor to myself. With his name I wish my own to be always connected. The hopes and affections that clung round him with the thought of whom almost every feeling was associated, have been torn from their support. But it is past: I endeavour to think of him as one with whom I am hereafter again to be united; and any thing in life would be a poor exchange for this expectation.


By the author of the last piece.

Farewell! before we meet again,
Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown,
That lie in distant years of pain,
I have to journey on alone;

To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, Perchance with joys thou canst not share; And when we both were wont to kneel, To breathe alone the silent prayer.

But ne'er a deeper pang to know,
Than when I watched thy slow decay,
Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow,
And felt at last each hope give way.

But who the destined hour can tell,
That bids the loosened spirit fly?
E'en now this pulse's feverish swell
May warn me of mortality.

But chance what may, thou wilt no more
With sense and wit my hours beguile,
Inform with learning's various lore,
Or charm with friendship's kindest smile.

Each book I read, each walk I tread,
Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see,
All speak of hopes forever fled;
All have some tale to tell of thee.

I shall not, should misfortune lower,
Should friends desert, and life decline,
I shall not know thy soothing power,
Nor hear thee say, My heart is thine.

If thou hadst lived, thy well-earnt fame
Had bade my fading prospect bloom,
Had cast its lustre o'er my name,
And stood the guardian of my tomb.

Servant of God! thy ardent mind,
With lengthening years improving still,
Had ceaseless strove to serve mankind,
And thus perform thy Father's will.

Another task to thee was given;
'T was thine to drink of early woe,
To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven,
And bend submissive to the blow.

With patient smile, and steady eye,
To meet each pang that sickness gave,
And see with lingering step draw nigh,
The form that pointed to the grave.

Servant of God! thou art not there;
Thy race of virtue is not run:
What blooms on earth of good and fair,
Will ripen in another sun.

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Dost thou amid the rapturous glow
With which the soul her welcome hears,
Dost thou still think of us below,
Of earthly scenes, of human tears?

Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return
To when in summer's moonlight walk,
Of all that now is thine to learn,
We formed no vain nor fruitless talk.

We fancied then those nobler ends,
The good pursue when life is fled;
The meeting with departed friends;
The converse with illustrious dead.

We spake of knowledge, such as soars From world to world with ceaseless flight; And love, that follows, and adores,

As nature spreads before her sight.

How vivid still past scenes appear,
I feel as though all were not o'er,
As though 't were strange I cannot hear
Thy voice of friendship yet once more.

But I shall hear it in that day
Whose setting sun I may not view,
When earthly voices die away,
Thine will at last be heard anew.

We meet again: a little while,
And where thou art I too shall be ;
And then with what an angel smile
Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me.


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