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Forgot by all,

Amid a land of Savages, I wait

From cruel hostile hands my coming fate;
Or else to fall

Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart,
While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit must depart.

How have I wept

In pity for my followers, when afar

O'er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star

Our course we kept;

But night winds only o'er my grave

shall sigh;

For, bowed by cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die.

No selfish hope

Of fame or honour led me here again
To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain-
He who must cope

With treachery and wrong, until the flame
Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame.

To serve my king

I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill;
To glorify my God, whose holy will

Taught me to fling

The veil of error from before my eyes,

And teach mankind His power as shewn 'neath other skies.

Weep for me, Earth!

Thou, whose bright wonders I have oft explored;

Weep for me Heaven! to whose proud heights has soared, E'en from its birth,

My strong-winged spirit in its might alone;

Lo! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, unknown.

THE VOICE OF PRAISE.

BY MISS MITFORD,

THRRE is a voice of magic power

To charm the old, delight the young-*

In lordly hall, in rustic bower,

In every clime, in every tongue, Howe'er its sweet vibration rung, In whispers low, in poet's lays,

There lives not one who has not hung Enraptured on the voice of praise.

The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepared to fly :
'Tis pleasure breathes that short, quick sigh,
And flushes o'er that rosy face;

Whilst shame and infant modesty

Shrink back with hesitating grace.

The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek
At that sweet voice still deeper glows;
Her quivering lips in vain would seek
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows
Oft springs from some low broken word:
O praise! to her how sweetly flows
Thine accent from the loved one heard!

The hero, when a people's voice

Proclaims their darling victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear;-

It pierces to their inmost core;

He weeps, who never shed a tear; He trembles, who ne'er shook before.

The poet, too-ah! well I deem,

Small is the need the tale to tell;

Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away?

In memory cheer his gloomy cell;
In hope can lend a deathless ray?

"Tis sweet to watch Affection's eye;
To mark the tear with love replete ;
To feel the softly-breathing sigh,

When Friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet
The praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.

The lover lulls his rankling wound,

By dwelling on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound

Of her young warrior's growing fame.
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame,
Of her soul's wedded partner riven,

Who cherishes the hallowed flame,
Parted on earth, to meet in heaven!—

That voice can quiet passion's mood;
Can humble merit raise on high;
And from the wise and from the good,
It breathes of immortality!
There is a lip, there is an eye,
Where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh—
My mother, need I say, 't is thine!
Literary Panorama.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

Он! breathe not-breathe not

-sure 't was something holy!

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Earth has no sounds like these-again it passes
With a wild voice, that slowly rolls away,
Leaving a silence not unmusical!

And now again the wind-harp's frame hath felt
The spirit—like the organ's richest peal
Rolls the long murmur, and again it comes,

That wild low wailing voice.

These sounds to me

Bear record of strange feelings;-it was evening,
And this same instrument lay on my window
That the sighing breezes there might visit it;—
I then did love to leave my lonely heart,

Like this soft harp, the plaything of each impulse,
The sport of every breath. I sate along,
Listening for many minutes-the sounds ceased,
Or, though unnoted by the idle ear,

Were mingling with my thoughts-I thought of one,
And she was of the Dead.She stood before me
With sweet sad brow, like the wan moon at midnight
Smiling in silence on a world at rest-

-I rushed away—I mingled with the mirth
Of the noisy many,—it is strange, that night
With a light heart, with light and lively words,
I sported hours away; and yet there came

At times wild feelings-words will not express them—
But it seemed that a chill eye gazed upon my heart,
That a wan cheek, with a sad smile, upbraided me;
I felt that mirth was but a mockery,

Yet I was mirthful:

I lay down to sleep

I did not sleep-I could not choose but listen,

For o'er the wind-harp's strings the spirit came

With that same sweet low voice. Yes! thou may'st smile,

But I must think, my friend, as then I thought,

That the voice was hers whose early death I mourned,
That she it was who breathed those solemn notes
Which like a spell possessed the soul.—

I lay

Wakeful, the prey of many feverish feelings,

My thoughts were of the dead!— At length I slept,
If it indeed were sleep.-She stood before me
In beauty-the wan smile had passed away-
The eye was bright-I could not bear its brightness.
Till now I knew not death was terrible,

For seldom did I dwell upon the thought;
And if, in some wild moment, Fancy shaped
A world of the departed, 't was a scene
Most calm and cloudless, or if clouds at times
Stained the blue quiet of the still soft sky,
They did not dim its charms, but suited well
The stillness of the scene, like thoughts that move
Silently o'er the soul or linger there,
Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness!
This is an idle song!-I cannot tell

What charms were hers who died.-I cannot tell
What grief is theirs, whose spirits weep for her!
Oh! many were the agonies of prayer,

And many were the mockeries of hope;
And many a heart, that loved the weak delusion,
Looked forward for the rosy smiles of Health,
And many a rosy smile passed o'er that cheek
Which will not smile again;—and the soft tinge
That often flushed across that fading face,

And made the stranger smile with friends, would wake
A momentary hope ;- -even the calm tone

With which she spoke of Death, gave birth to thoughts,
Weak, trembling thoughts, that the lip uttered not!
And when she spoke with those, whom most she mourned
To leave, and when through clear calm tears the eye
Shone with unwonted light, oh! was there not

In its rich sparkle something that forbade

The fear of Death? And when in life's last days

The same gay spirit, that in happier hours

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