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In turn receive to silent rest,
Another, and another guest;

The feathered hearse and sable train,

In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,

And stand before the gate ;
Brought many a distant country through,
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,

All to their dusty beds,
Still shall the mellow evening ray

Shine gaily o'er their heads :
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall fill the squire's respected pew.



Sweet paradise beneath the mountains rude,
That sentinel Glen-Coe's terrific vale,
Smile ever thus in peace and solitude;
Smooth be thy lake, and gentle be thy gale!
Methinks good angels are abroad, and sing
At morn or noon, at eve or moonlight pale,
High hallelujahs to the Omnific King
Who bade thee in thine awful beauty show
What primal Eden was, ere yet the sting
Of sin and death had marred the bliss below.
O, were the season ripe to quit the roar
Of life, and all its turbulence of woe,
Here would I wait my voyage to that shore
Where sorrow, pain, and guilt shall be no more.



Farewell! sweet pledge of guilty love,

And speed thy flight to realms of bliss,An angel, formed for worlds above,

Thou couldst not bear the storms of this!
Farewell, most loved and most deplored, ,

I bend me to my Father's will ;
Though my heart's blood were gladly poured,

To hold thee here a captive still!
Guilt hath but found its fitting meed, -

I, who the nuptial couch defiled, And bade a guiltless husband bleed,

Must suffer in my guiltless child. Now know I why my love hath twined

A bond so close around my heart,'T was, that by suffering I might find

The strength of that I tore apart.

I did but watch thine

eye unclose
To mark its lustre wane away;
I did but hail thy cheek's young rose

To mourn it withering in decay.
Then, thoughts of struggling prayer had birth

Within my breast,—I prayed for thee;
But conscience chained my soul to earth,

And even my prayers were agony ! Yet well it were that thou shouldst die,

All young and beauteous as thou wert; That stroke dissolved the only tie

That bound to guilt's brief joys my heart. For, by the anguish thou hast felt,

And by the pangs I felt and feel, The' obdurate soul was taught to melt,

Which lawless love had seemed to steel.

The prophet's voice pronounced thy doom,

'T was mine to own the sentence just;

To watch thee sinking to the tomb,

Yet, bend submissive in the dust.
But who shall tell the grief that swelled

Within a father's breast, to know
His hand the deadly shaft impelled,

Which laid his spotless offspring low!

I sinned, and thou hast suffered. Thou!

Have not I suffered? When the dew
Of death was on thy gentle brow,

Was not mine cold with anguish too?
And, till I heard that all was o'er,

Was not a flame within my breast,
To which the pangs thy frame that tore

Had seemed a respite and a rest?

But now 'tis past :-I may not mourn,

For thou, beloved babe, art free;
And I may yet to thee return,

Though thou canst ne'er return to me.
Yes! we shall meet in realms more fair,

My sorrows healed, my sins forgiven,
And thy sweet smile awaits me there,

My welcome, at the gates of Heaven!
Literary Souvenir.




I'm sorry, dear Moore, there is a damp on your joy,

Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,
When I say that your wife had a right to a boy,

For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.
But since Fate the boon that you wished for refuses,

By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
She but meant while you wander abroad with the Muses,

Your wife shall be circled at home with the Graces !



The cold hand of death presses harshly upon me,

The last fearful conflict draws rapidly nigh ;
But shame and disgrace lie more heavily on ine,

I wish not to live, while I tremble to die.
Yet deem not, though friendless—degraded—forsaken,

I write to upbraid thee in bitterness wild ;
Reproaches are vain ; and I seek but to waken

Thy latent remorse for my innocent child.

I once had a father, whose fond heart delighted

To cherish, indulgent, the child of his love ;Ah! how was that partial indulgence requited!

How weak did the thought of that tenderness prove!
Yet still, though with curses indignant he spurns me,

His heart may relent, ere my rest shall arrive;
For Hope whispers soft, ʼmid the fever that burns me:

Where God stoops to pardon, there man must forgive.

I once had a mother-I mean not to wound thee,

Though conscience must startle appalled at her name; Thou know'st with what virtue her confidence crowned thee,

How she sank in despair at the breath of my shame.
Alas! she is fled—yet, in darkest dishonour,

Her bosom was still firm and tender to me;
Her last feeble accents, when death was upon her,

Spoke peace to her daughter, and pardon to thee!

And soon shall I follow, where anguish and weeping

To silence are hushed in the rest of the tomb; But the babe at my bosom unconsciously sleeping

He shared not my guilt-must he share in my doom?

I charge thee in death, by each once-cherished token

Of love,-—by the young days when innocence smiled ; By the woes thou hast wrought, — by the hearts thou hast


By the God who shall judge thee-watch over my child ! Literary Souvenir.



The bride is dead! The bride is dead!

Cold and frail, and fair she lieth :
Wrapped is she in sullen lead;
And a flower is at her head;

And the breeze above her sigheth,
Thorough night and thorough day,
“Fled away !-Fled away!"

Once,— but what can that avail,

Once, she wore within her bosom,
Pity, which did never fail,
A hue that dashed the lily pale;

her cheek a blossom,
Such as yet was never known :-
All is past and overthrown!

Mourn! the sweetest bride is dead,

And her knight is sick with sorrow,
That her bloom is ‘lapped in lead :'
Yet he hopeth, fancy-fed,

He may kiss his love to-morrow.
But the breezes — what say they ?-

“ Fled away !- Fled away!"
Literary Souvenir.

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