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"Types not this,” I said, "fair Spirit!

death-hour is to come?
Say, what days shall I inherit ?-

soul their sum.
"No," he said, “ yon phantoin's aspect,
Trust me, would appal thee worse,
Held in clearly measur'd prospect:-
Ask not for a curse!
Make not, for I overbear
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch-
Make not the untold reques
That is now revolving in thy breast.
" 'Tis to live again, remeasuring

years, like a scene rehears'd,
In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!
Life'e career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by fate together spun ?
Could thy flight heaven's lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance
Scape the myriad shafts of chance.
“ Would'st thou bear again Love's trouble-
Friendship's death-dissever'd ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble
Of Ambition's prize?
Say thy life's new-guided action
Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springen

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As the tall ears bow to the sunburnt reaper,

Life's joys encounter Time's advancing sickle:
As mingled shapes float o'er the fever'd sleeper,

Our fortunes glide ;- more varied, and as fickle
Yet better far the gale that stirs the soul,

Than calms, however lovely,--that delay us
To strive with elements, whose dull control

Flatters our lazy pride, but to betray us : But best,--the heart which builds its lofty aim

Among the stars ;-and, in the hand of heaven, Confides its treasures till the day of claim,

Nor fears Life's billows, wberesoe'er 'tis driven: His love cheers ev'n the lazar. house of shame, Who sooth'd the storm, and staid the burning levin!

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Behold the moon! --whose heavenly alchymy

Turns waves and clouds to silver. And behold,

It is the glorious firmament, which of old
Shook with its empyrean harmony,–
When, from his Maker's hands, ipan first walk'd

Amid the sinless universe. The gold- (free

The fine gold now is dim! Yet he were cold Who fallen though he is, could joyless see


W And

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The birds have sang themselves to sleep ;
Nor ev'n the forest owls are hooting :
While oft, along night's shadowy steep,
With silent glance the stars are shooting.
And sleep is in the city's bounds,
As well as on the dusky hill,
The curfew's voice no longer sounds,
The hum of multitudes still, -

And all at rest, but thee my Soul,

Oh! all at rest but thee!
Yet not far distant is the clime

Where this bright frame of things must sever,
And the disorder'd stream of Time

Leap o'er its bound, and break for ever

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I will not weep, my boy, for thee,-
Though thou wert all the world to me!
I would not wish thee wak'd again,
To strive, like me, with want and pain.
I will but close that still bright eye,
And kiss that brow so pale and high,
And those pure lips, whose tones divine
Caught their first words, first pray’rs from mine
And fold thee to this bosom lone,
Which thou bast left as cold's thine own,-,
And thus, implore the God who takes,-
To help the heart thine absence breaks !
My boy,my boy,- this darken'd earth

Shall never more to me seem fair;
And I shall stand, 'mid all its mirth,

Like something which should not be there!
Yet 'twas to heav'n thy soul was borne,
And wherefore should thy parent mourn?
Perhaps in mercy, He reprov'd
The selfish zeal with which I lov'd.
I'll mourn no more! my God, thou know'st
The wealth my desolate heart has lost!
Oh! shield me from repining cares,
When other parents point to theirs ;
Bring back that light I now bebold,
Oh these lov'd features,-calm and cold,

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The world's forgotten while I gaze on thee.
And, sweet as echoes from a lonely shore,
Thy pensive accents render back to me,
Feelings of bliss I deem'd for ever o'er.
On thee the broken hearted too might gaze,
And half forget that e'er they wish'd to die;
Nor sin itfelf,-from Earth could e'er erase
All Eden-while thy pure soul lit that eye.
Pure as the dew, absorb'd in heaven's light,
Ere yet it mingles in the darker show'r,
That soul contrasts my own to deeper night,
And makes me but an infant in thy pow'r.
Thy bloom is deathless. Neither time por woe
Shall see thy Soul's unclouded beauty flit;
Nor age can ever dim those eyes, whose glow
Comes from a shrine which God himself hath lit !

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Srill seems it strange, that thou shouldst live for

Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all ?


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