American watchman and Delaware advertiser. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1822-1828, 1825-05-13
THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north winds BREATH
And stars TO set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!
Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer
But all, for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wne
There comes day for Grief's Overwhelming power,
time for softer tears-but all are thine
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wther at the north winds breath,
And stars to set-but aI
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tnge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee!
Is it when Springs first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets iet
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale
They have one season--aH are ours to die!
Thou art where pillows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou around us in peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe, and truppets rend
Inc SKIES, au sWofuS DSdt uoWh piHieCiy SiSot'
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north winds breath,
And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!
The following Stanzas written by Mrs. Cornwall
Baron Wilson, in the piece called The Hon
Of Death," written by Mrs. Hemans.
True-aR we know must die
Though can tell the exact appointed hour,
L. \ "a Az x,,r,,,n hnopf ei,rh
Whether death crush the oak, nip the opening fowr
The Christian is prepared;
Though others tremble at the hour OF gloom,
HIS soul is always on his guard,
His lamps lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come.
1t matters not the time,
When we shall end our pilgrimage below;
Whether in youths bright morn, or manhood's prime,
Or when the frost of age has whitend DER our brow
The Child that bossomd fair,
And looked so lovely Oh its mothers breast
(Fond source of many hope and many prayerD
why murnur that it sleeps where all at last must rest
Snatched from world of woe,
Where they must suffer most, who longest dwell
1t vanished like fake of early snow,
That melts into the sea, pure from Heaven 1t fell!
The youth whose pulse beats high,
Eager through glorys brilliant course to run;
why should we shed tear or breathe sigh,
That the bright goal is ganed-the prize thus early won
Unstained by many crime,
Which to maturer years might owe their birth;
In summers earliest bloom, in mornings prime,
How best they who quit this chequered OF eartf
And shall no tear be paid
To her the new made Bride the envied fair;
On whose fond heart Deaths whitening hand is laid,
Checking each pulse Of bliss Hymen had wakend there
| Joy scatterd roses, while
The happy slumberer sank in calm repose
| In DEATHS embrace-ere love withdrew his smile
And scapd those chilling bHghs the heart too often know
| Yes all we know must die
/ Since none can tell The exact appointed hour,
Whv need II cost the virtuous heart sigh,
Whether death crush the oak or nip the opening iow'r