He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow,
And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,--
"For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth,
Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,--
'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus."
Is not the justice which confines him here
Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart
Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness.

Spirit.

Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man,
Is but a moral seed, which, in due season,
Must bring forth fruit according to its kind.
The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,--

Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,--
The fruits are garnered in Eternity,
To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food!
If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been
Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,--
What marvel if we feed on bitterness?--
What shadow next appears?

Werner.

An aged man,
Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath
The weight of years, or worldly cares that press
Still heavier than the iron hand of time.