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Of curious form, and wild flowers of all hues,
Hang pendant from the fissures of the cliffs.

Far 'neath my eye, even at the valley's gorge,
A ruined chapel, with its ivied walls,
'Mid the rude grave-stones of the villagers,
Lies sheltered; thence grey orchards, and green fields
Spotted with cattle, and the furrowed glebe
Where yet the tender wheaten shoot lies hid,
Waiting the warm breath of the tardy Spring,
Bask in the day; beyond, the healthy moor
Spreads out its dusky level—a wide plain,
Even like the ocean's breast when the wind sleeps,
And waves are stilled, and the full sun looks out
For the cloud-shadows to disport upon.
Lo! how along the depths of heaven, like ships
With all their white sails crowding into light,
The vapours float magnificent!—beneath,
In beautiful contention with the light,
Shadows are chasing shadows; like wild hounds,
That sweep the dewy mountain's side at morn.

And now thy distant boundaries, dark plain! Are sparkling in the sunshine; the blue hills Rise with their bright crests in the azure skies, And turrets start from groves between, and spires 'Mid clustering walls ascend; green hills swell ou Their bosoms, and the valleys sink in shade.

Oh! how I love to watch yon mountain heights; For there are eyes beyond, now fixed on them,

Thinking of eyes that gaze upon them here:
And there's a constant heart beyond, that beats
With a fond expectation, and doth count
Days, hours, nay minutes, as they creep away,
Pensively chiding the slow-footed time.

With a long sigh, from my sweet dream I start,
And lo! beneath me smokes the sheltered cot,
The rose-clasped porch of hospitality:
Where Friendship pillows his tired kinsman's head,
And gentle Beauty smiles a welcome home.

SONNET.

I

FROM PETRARCH. WEEPING for all my long lost years, I go,

And for that love which to this world confined

A spirit whose strong flight, for heaven designed,
No mean example might one man bestow.
Thou, who didst view my wanderings and my woe,
Great King of heaven! unseen, immortal mind!

Succour this weary being, frail and blind;
And may thy grace o’er all my failings flow!
Then, though my life through warring tempests passed,

My death may tranquilly and slowly come; And my calm soul may flee in peace at last:

While o'er that space which shuts me from the tomb, And on my death-bed, be thy blessing castFrom Thee, in trembling hope, I wait my doom.

Mary ni V. CANZONET.

Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day,
Silence bestows such virtue on it.

Shakspeare.

Love dwells not in the sparkling blaze,

When noon rests on the stream; His tender flowerets dare not raise

Their bosoms to the beam : When gleams the moon through latticed bowers,

· And stars are shining bright, He communes with the shadowy hours,

And wooes the silent night.

II.

The dreamy perfume of the rose,

The violet's deeper sigh,
The music of the rill; that flows

In liquid cadence by;
The sweet tones of some village chime

On sweeter echoes borne, -
These, these are joys of evening time,

Which scarcely wait the morn!

III.
Not in the rich and courtly hall

The heart's pure faith is given ;
But where the green-wood shadows fall

Beneath a twilight heaven.
Life's crowded pomp and pageant show

May darker passions move,
But solitude alone can know

The incense thoughts of love.

IV.

When worldly cares are hushed in sleep, .

Love wakes at such an hour, Young hopes their angel vigils keep,

And joy resumes its power :
Though night, in all its dusky state,

Athwart the skies be thrown;
Yet Beauty's glance can then create

A noontide all her own!

THE LOST SPIRIT.

No man cared for my soul.

Psalın cxlii,

Weep, sire, with shame and ruing ;
Weep for thy child's'undoing !
For the days when I was young,
And no prayer was taught my tongue,
Nor the record from on high,
Of the life that cannot die.
Wiles of the world and men,
Of their three-score years and ten ;
Earthly profit, humán praise,
Thou didst set before my gaze,
As the guiding stars of life ;
As the meed of toil and strife :

I ran the world's race well,
And find my guerdon — Hell !

Weep, mother, weep! yet know
’T will not shorten endless woe;
Prayers will not unbind my chain,
Nor repentance soften pain,

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