STANZAS.

'To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.'

I go, my friend, thank heaven! at last I go, Beyond yon clouds that sail, yon stars that glow, And every thing that liveth here below Is dead to me! The stream on whose green bank I've often read, The mountain-sward that felt my twilight tread, The flowers around, the leaves above me spread— All—all but thee!

Yet, idol of my spirit! from thy heart And memory, I shall not all depart, And thou wilt then remain what now thou art; And friendship's spell Will with our pleasures people each lov'd scene, The cascade's fount, the glade's romantic green, The woodland with the sunset's gold between, And classic dell.

Oh! is it not a pleasure and a pride, To think that we on earth shall be allied With those who loved us, when we shall have died, And sunk to rest— And that fond aspirations will arise To Him who ruleth earth, and sea, and skies, That we be, by His saving sacrifice, Among the blest!