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XV. And hast thou not one look for me? those little restless

eyes Are wandering, wandering every where, the while thy

mother dies ;And yet — perhaps thou ’rt seeking me-expecting me,

mine own! Come, Death, and make me to my child at least in

spirit known!


VAINLY thou bid’st me woo the lofty Muse,
And with weak voice, and hand unskilful, try
To string “the orient pearls of poesy.”—
With pencil dipt in Fancy's rainbow-hues,
Thou bid’st me all her beamy light diffuse
O’er this dull world of sad reality :-
'T is vain! No slumbering spirit of melody
Lives in my lyre;- no spell her voice renews!
The ring-dove does not strain her tender throat,
Vainly ambitious of the linnet's note :-
On feeble wing why should I strive to soar,
When simplest words thy faithful heart can bless!
Why, envious, wish for bright poetic lore,
When in thy love I find all happiness!




How lived - how loved - how died they?


“The Dead! the glorious Dead !--And shall they rise ? Shall they look on thee with their proud, bright eyes ?

Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call ?—

The deep grave knows it well!

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“ Wouldst thou behold earth's Conquerors ? — Shall they


Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass

With Triumph's long array ?-
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, .
As on their proudest day.


Or wouldst thou look upon the Lords of Song ?O’er the dark mirror that immortal throng

Shall waft a solemn gleam !
Passing with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,

But silent as a dream.”


“ Not these, O mighty Master !—Though their lays Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,

Hallowed for evermore ! And not the buried conquerors !--Let them sleep, And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep

In joy, from shore to shore !

“ But, if the narrow-house may be so moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,

Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled
With peace; if human love hath ever stilled

The yearning human breast.”

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“ Away, fond youth !-An idle quest is thine: These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;

I know not of their place!

Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,

Have passed, and left no trace.

VII. “ Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,

This covering turf may bloom ; But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers, Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,

Or poet hailed their tomb.”


“ Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice perchance by those lone graves may tell

That which I pine to know !
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,

Records of joy and woe."



Among the common occurrences of life, there are few, perhaps, more calculated to interest and animate the mind of a spectator, than the sight of a numerous fleet of gallant vessels leaving port to proceed upon a distant voyage. But, exclusive of the more elevated feelings which are naturally called forth by reflecting on the spirit and intelligence which is embarked in these noble machines, to bear the name, the riches, and the power of Britain, to the uttermost parts of the globe, the scene teems with objects of more ordinary and present interest. The shore is all astir with hurry and bustle: crowds are seen running from different quarters, all to the same point; groups, equipped for their voyage, throng to the quays or beach, attended by relatives and friends, who proffer or receive those words of encouragement or comfort, which the party with the strongest nerves never fails 10 pour into the dull ear of grief. Then may be heard the cheerful, hearty well-wishings of such as having themselves often braved the winds and waves think but of

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