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Lost! lost! lost !

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise ;
Set round with three times eight

Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,

All changeful as the light.

Lost, where the thoughtless throng

In Fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth Folly's song,

Leaving a sting behind.
Yet to my hand 'twas given,

A golden harp to buy,
Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again. I offer no reward

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven's intrusted gift

Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scathe and loss,

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?



ALL night the booming minute-gun

Had pealed along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep
A bark, from India's coral strand,

Before the rushing blast
Had veiled her top-sails to the sand,

And bowed her noble mast.

The queenly ship! brave hearts liad striven,

And true ones died with her!
We saw her mighty cable riven

Like floating gossamer :
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas ;
Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn-

And sadder things than these.

We saw her treasures cast away

The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray

Flashed out o'er fretted stone;
And gold was strewn the wet sands v'er,

Like ashes by a breeze;
And gorgeous robes—but, oh! that shore

Had sadder sights than these !

We saw the strong man, still and low,

A crushed reed thrown aside!
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,

Not without strife he died !
And near him, on the sea-weed, lay-

Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,

That there a mother slept !

For her pale arms a babe had pressed

With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp ! Her very tresses had been flung

To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet, long streamers clung,

All tangled by the storm.

· And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,

Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber, trustingly serene,

In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,

With half-shut violet eye;
He had known little of her dread,

Nought of her agony !

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,

Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part

Its passionate adieu !
Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea !



They grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee ;-
Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?

One, ’midst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream is laid –

The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one

He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed

Above the noble slain;
He wrapt his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded ’midst Italian flowers

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played

Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the heartlı-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O Earth!



OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade

A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood

A woful wail that day.

“O mother !” was the mingled cry “O mother, mother! do not die

And leave us all alone.”— “My blessed babes !” she tried to say, But the faint accents died away

In a low sobbing moan.

And then life struggled hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breatlı,

And up she raised her head ; And peering through the deep wood maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,

“Will he not come ?" she said.

Just then, the parting boughs between, A little maid’s light form was seen,

All breathless with her speed ; And following close, a man came on, (A portly man to look upon),

Who led a panting steed. “Mother!" the little maiden cried, Or e'er she reached the woman's side

And kissed her clay-cold cheek; “I have not idled in the town, But long went wandering up and down,

The minister to seek.

They told me here—they told me thereI think they mocked me everywhere ;

And when I found his home, And begged him on my bended knee To bring his book, and come with me

Mother! he would not come.

I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away

Without the minister ;
I begged him, for dear Christ, his sake,
But, oh !--my heart was fit to break-

Mother ! he would not stir.

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