EXPULSION FROM EGYPT.

The seasons pass, till on their hands they count

Four palms, and to the third, a score and three

In life's meridian how the circles mount

That measure our existence, if there be

No canker worm that clogs the ready wheel;

If care hangs not upon the skirts of time;

And if, like most mankind, we only feel

Its gentle passing, by the hills we climb

In ambling, easy way, and retrospect

Surprises into thought, and we wake up

To feel how swift we journey. We reflect

After reflection barrens of its fruit, the cup

Which we have mixed we drink; if it be gall

We gulp it down the same; we cannot change

The current of our lives, and useless is the call

On any but the hand of God.‘ Tis strange

The miracle of life should ever pass

And print no letters deep into the soul!

The years go by, and, but the tuft of grass

More reverent than we, tells o'er our dust its rosary, in deep green scroll.