The Litchfield County post., 1827-09-27


Ia London weekly paper( They are surprisingly
delicate and beautiful They are printed without a
name, but the poet that could imagine any thing 50
gentle, tender, and imaginative, must a station
amongst the highest of his order. They resemble
of C&erdges pieces after he fell into his and
freafny style.-Noah.
Not hers the look, nor hers the eye
OF cold unmeaning apathy;
1t was not the flash of the flinty stone
That is stubborn 10 strike and instant gone
Nor like the BOrealis light
That satiates not, but mocks the sight;
Nor like the Meteor's subtle ray
That lures us on but to betray
Nor like the beams of the urid Sun
Ere the fiery part of his race is run,
10 which though we bow with homage down,
No mortal eye dare look upon:
Twas more like tie flame of the gfoW-worm's light,
So family pure so meeky bright,
That hides it in its NOISY
Till the noise Of the giddy world is over;
But tho so faint its tmid lay
We pass it in the garish day,
Who does not love it in evening bower,
When IT lights up the thought of the pensive hour
l knew her worth, and loved her well,
U! how much better than words can tell
Vet knew not loved her SO well, before
The hour come could love her no more; a.
L was like the dream of the feverlsh night
But where IS the joy of the morning light?
No morning breaks to give the lie
To the dismaIy dark reality,
o ii is almost sweet TO bend
Der the silent couch of dying friend,
Yet sweeter when that sacred tie
Was knit in earliest infancy;
When you know that the spirit that wings its way
Is Fastening fast to the realms ofday,
To feel the grasp of the chilly fingers,
Where the pulse of life reluctant fingers,
Beating faint and YEARLY,
Like the timeless pash of the sui en- sea,
When evening creeps DER the sumberng ocean,
Nearied and faint with his endies motion.
1t seemd as the angels that dwell on high
Were stung with holy jealousy,
And they enved, that one good and so fair,
Should be lingering longer with mortas here;
And they proflered their plea before the throne,
And they claimed the virgin their own;
For she smiPd at its cares and look'd grave its
mirth,
And seemed to have little to do With earth;
And they led her up thro the gates of bliss,
And the passport there angels kiss;
And they opened the book, but her leaf was fair,
There not sin record there.
In the poem which copy below, the reader will
find a vivid and terrific description Of a PLAGUE. 1t
written by J. B. Prior and elected by read
ing description ofthe dreadful Plague which cen-
tury and half ago, nearly depopuated the immense
city of London.
THE PLAGUE.
:. Bring out your dead Ills the pmans cry;
The wags is filling, aud waiting n;gh-
Cannot pity, or mercy, or love prevail?
Nay, " bring out your dead"
Not a word can be said -
The plague will not listen to sympahy's tale
"Sring out your dead 1.-THE twins are not cold
Their mothers fingers clasp'd in their fold;
Let me get them a coffin, I'll dig them grave.
ILou art slckeniug,-thy breath
Is rece1ing to death;
The plague viii not heed when to s1ccour or save.
" Bring out your dead !''-thats frutess sigh:
The babe and the aget together lie
They were dear heart, they were precious and
Bring them forth I'm the heap
They will quietly Sleep
And the plague, lovely woman; is calling thee too!
I" Bring out your dead!'-letthe Golfers stay;
The Wagon is stopping-we bury away!
But my uncle is sick, he will leave me his wealth,
elisa thousand to one
IfAy race be not run
Ere the midnight:-th plague does not travel past
health.
" Bring out your dead I'VE are going to pray;
No priest can we purchase the masses to say;
We but yesterday marrled-so soon must we die?
Love and beauty they go
TO the charnel below
The plague does not care, who together shall lie.
" Bring ont your dead ''--both friar and clerk,
We have taken with cross book and band the dark;
The nun and the lady are vaulted alike
From the Bridge to Saint John
All the orders are gone,
And the soldier is fallen by his habert and pike.
" Brin~ out your dead ?'--throw his armour aside:
Let weapons be moved with his dresses Of pride;
Strip the gold and the jewels the purchasers dead
Even the wagon so high
Has no driver to ply
To the mountains offesh by mortality fed
" Bring out your dead "'-on the Thames, at the Hail.
From the Gates to the Stairs from the Wark to the
Wall,
Who shall live, or shall die CONSERVATION is wild !.
Where spot can be found
IT'S Infections ground;
And it matters not living, who hector'd or smil'd.
" Bring out your dead '-the dead cannot hear;
The streets are in darkness and silent and drear;
The houses are void, and the shutters are fast:
Both the rich and the poor
Have been brought to the door,.
And the ptnen are buried together, at1as
NEATNESS AND TASTE.
An esteemed female friend has put into our
hands Sermon, entitled The excellence Of