POETRY.

FOR THE ENQUIRER. STANZAS.
STANZAS. Yes, thou art dead! R0d yet 'tis sweet To think thy spirit is at rest, AHd where bright things of glory meet In Lovsas own holy world thou'rt bless'd. 'Tis sweet to thidk-ere earth could east One care to bIight-one sin to stain That thou in purity hast pass'd

 To heaven and joy, from earth and pain. 'Tis sweet to think-and yet we weep That aught like thee so soon shOuldst die, b. Making earth darker with . deep

 And mole than human agony: For earth could boast but few like thee And few 90 soon have pasS'd away ~- And man must ever grieve to be A mourner Ger an angels clay. Oh! I had hoped that thou shOuldst weep A parting tear above my bed; And through the midnight watches keep A fearful vigil with the dead. It may not be--and yet 'tis bless'd, In this dark world of sin and pain, To think that for eternal rest

 In thy bright home we meet again.