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self-discipline. Her poetic abstractions of excellence must be converted into tangible duties, and her craving sensibilities must nourish, by patient tenderness, the love that querulous demands would weary and repel. She must not only minister to his domestic comfort and enjoyment, but she should create in herself new tastes and faculties, and task all the deeper energies of her own nature, to meet the nobler necessities of his heart and mind, that no other source may be found to supply to him the aspirations and sympathies born of her intellect and tenderness.

When a union, founded upon sympathy and taste, is sanctified by religious faith, and “made sure and steadfast” by a “hope of life everlasting," the “spring" is then fed from a “fountain ” whose “ living waters” will nourish the roots of the soul's nobler affections

• Till all be made immortal.”




It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;
It is, that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When the pale star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead;
It floats


the water's bed :
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale ;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh for me!

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too :
I start, and when the vision 's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.


O, ART thou still on earth, my love ?

My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home,

Far, far above i

O, is thy sweet voice fled, my love ?

Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven,

Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair,

In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,

Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love,

Dwell on thy brow! But something mournfully divine

There shineth now !

And silent ever is thy lip,

And pale thy cheek : 0, art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's?

Speak to me, speak!

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I Ask not golden stores of wealth,

Or rank, and pomp, and state ;
The noble's glittering coronet,

The mansion of the great.
I care not that around


brow Fame's laurel wreath should twine ; Or that on history's glowing page

My name may proudly shine.

I envy not the calm retreat,

From worldly noise and strife,
The lowly cot, the flower-gemmed path,

The simple joys of life.
I ask not that in soft repose

My peaceful days may glide,
As the light bark is borne along

The deep, unruffled tide.

But this I ask; that while I live,

I may not live in vain ;
For I would cheer the aching heart,

And soothe the mourner's pain;
Would wipe away grief's bitter tears,

The poor man's struggles aid;
And guide the wanderer back, whose steps

From virtue's path have strayed.

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I THREW a bubble to the sea;
A billow caught it hastily;
Another billow quickly came,
Successfully the prize to claim :
From wave to wave, unchecked it passed,
Till tossed upon a strand at last.
Thus glide unto the unknown shore
Those golden moments we deplore ;
Those moments which, not thrown away,
Might win for us eternal day.

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