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THE SANDS OF DEE.
And o'er and o’er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see. The western wind was wild and dank with The blinding mist came down and hid the foam,
land; And all alone went she.
And never home came she.
Dark and drear;
“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, So some strange thoughts transcend our wontA tress of golden hair,
And into glory peep.
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that locked her up gives They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee, home
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Across the sands of Dee.
Into true liberty!
Either disperse these mists, which blot and
My perspective still as they pass,
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass !
DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
LONDERNEATH the sod low-lying, Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Dark and drear, Or those faint beams in which this hill is
Sleepeth one who left, in dying dre sed,
Sorrow here. After the sun's remove.
Yes, they're ever bending o'er her, I see them walking in an air of glory,
Eyes that weep; Whose light doth trainple on my days;
Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, My days, which are at best but dull and
Vigils keep. hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.
When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair, O holy Hope! and high Humility!
Friends she loved in tears are twining High as the heavens above!
Chaplets there. These are your walks, and you have showed them me
Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above! To kindle my cold love.
Souls like thine with God inherit
Life and love! Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just,
JAMES T. FIELDS. Shining nowhere but in the dark, What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark.
SONG. He that hath found some fledged bird's nest IF I had thought thou could'st have died, may know,
I might not weep for thee; At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But I forgot, when by thy side, But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That thou could'st mortal be. That is to him unknown.
It never through my mind had passed
That time would e'er be o'er, And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams And I on thee should look my last, Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
And thou should'st smile no more.
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again ;
That I must look in vain.
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ;
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,
And where thy smiles have been ! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own; But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone.
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
In thinking still of thee;
Of light ne'er seen before,
TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget ?
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erbung with wildwoods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Do not come!
Bring no long train of carriages,
No hearse crowned with waving plumes, Which the gaunt glory of Death illumes; But with hands on my breast
Let me rest.
If, in my fair youth time, attended
By hope and delight every day,
Insult not my dust with your pity,
Ye who're left on this desolate shore,
For me no more are the hardships,
The bitterness, heartaches and strife,
This is mine!
Poor creatures! Afraid of the darkness,
Who groan at the anguish to come,
MARC EUGENE COOK,