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I reared thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I look upon thee - dead!
“Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave!
I have slain--my work is done:
Thou too art mute, my son!”
And thus his wild lament was poured
Through the dark resounding night;
Nor the foaming steed his might.
In every wind that sighed;
Humbly the Conqueror died.
BY THE LATE HENRY NEELE.
Hope still will mount; no timorous fears
Her purpose can beguile;
Will brighten to a smile.
So the gay skylark soars and sings,
To hail the orb of day;
Soon glitter in the ray.
BY THE LATE LORD BYRON.
"T is done! and shivering in the gale,
But could I be what I have been,
'T is long since I beheld that eye
As some lone bird without a mate,
And I will cross the whitening foam,
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Where friendship’s, or love's softer glow,
I go! but wheresoe'er I flee
me, There's not a kind, congenial heart Where I can claim the meanest part ; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh, although I love but one !
To think of every early scene-
And who that dear, loved one may be
I've tried another's fetters, too,
'T would soothe to take one lingering view,
ANASTASIUS TO HIS CHILD ALEXIS.
BY THE REV. C. H. TOWNSEND.
Sleep, oh! sleep, my dearest one,
While I watch thy placid slumbers,
pour, in low and pensive tone,
Thy cheek is pillowed on my arm,
As if secure that thee it shielded, And there a flush more deeply warm
The pressure to its tint hath yielded : Thy hand, which mine did lately clasp, Dwells there, relaxing in its grasp.
I long to view thy beauteous face,
To cheer me through the day's long toiling;
Shaded by thought-in pleasure smiling:
But, oh! this hour is most - most dear,
When even from the friendly stealing,
And fix on thee my every feeling;
And, oh! to guard thee thus from ill,
No other joy can rank before it;
How true a love is watching o'er it !
Sleep,—thou canst not know the love,
Which passes all of outward shewing; Much may my looks, words, actions prove,
But how much more untold is glowing !
all I most express.
A tender sadness melts my soul,
And Memory, with her train attending, Seems all her pages to unroll,
While Hope her airy dreams is blending. My tears are sweet; yet see not thou, Lest thou mistake their drops for woe,
I think of all I am the while,
Of guilt's dark hours, and life all blasted, And thou the only thing to smile,
Upon the heart, so widely wasted :
But with a thrill of keener pain,
A shuddering dread has now o'ercome me, That dries those kindly tears again,
Oh! should the future tear thee from me! Ah ah me! I hold thee now,-Shall I ask ever where art thou ?
I cannot call thee back again,
Nor o'er again these joys be living,
To give what now this hour is giving;
Yet, wherefore thus perversely run
To boded ill from present pleasure ? I know not why; but lives there one
Who binds his life in one rich treasure,