wept no longer over the sins of a perverse race. Those gentle and
lovely features were robed with the pallid hue of death, and the heart
that melted at the sorrows of mankind beat no longer. The grave, the
cold grave, rejoicingly closed its dreary portals upon his sacred
form; and he, the lowly and despised Nazarene, who found no resting-
place
for his weary head, slept quietly in a borrowed sepulchre.




THE COMPLAINT.


Ah! many springs have come and gone,
And called me forth in vain;
Now winter folds the winding-sheet
Round nature's breast again.

Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers,
Young feet have trod the grass,
But I have watched in solitude
The mournful shadows pass.

Young hands have gathered brighter flowers
From wisdom's pleasant tree--
But darker still the shadows fall,
There are no flowers for me!

No flowers! where shadows deepest lie