The Dead Are Like The

Joys Too Exquisite To Last, And Yet More Exquisite When Past.

Here Hyacinths Of Heavenly Blue, Shook Their Rich Tresses To The Morn.

A Mother's Love — How Sweet The Name! What Is A Mother's Love? — A Noble, Pure And Tender Flame, Enkindled From Above, To Bless A Heart Of Earthly Mould; The Warmest Love That Can Grow Cold; This Is A Mother's Love.

Tis Human Actions Paint The Chart Of Time.

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.