When the winds were hush'd and the waves were still;
As the sun sank slowly down the west,
I thought of the good man dropping to rest,
When his race is run--he yields his breath,
And softly sinks in the slumber of death.

When I gazed on the gorgeous western sky,
I thought of those blissful bowers on high,
Whose brightness--blessedness serene,
Ear hath not heard--eye hath not seen.

When I saw the golden glories die,
I thought on life's uncertainty,
And as night came on in her ebon gloom,
Oh! I thought of the dark and the dreamless tomb,
How soon man's fairest prospects flee,
The curtain drops--"_And where is he?_"

COLBOURNE.

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THE NOVELIST.

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