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That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Genevra,
‘Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
"Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, -
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished—save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
“GENEvra,”

There then had she found a grave t Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever

THE WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
with many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch small spring,
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ;

And Lucy at her peals shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

MOORE.

AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither,
When, o'er the vale of BAlbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:—
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount,
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
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To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,
Sullenly fierce,—a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruined maid—the shrine profaned—
Oaths broken—and the threshold stained
With blood of guests! there written all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again
Yet tranquil now, that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night,
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,

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Lisping the eternal name of God
From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh 'twas a sight—that Heaven—that child—
A scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by

And how felt he, the wretched Man,
Reclining there, while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace'
“There was a time,” he said in mild
Heart-humbled tones, “thou blessed child,
“When young and haply pure as thou,
“I looked and prayed like thee—but now"—
He hung his head, each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept,
From boyhood's hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence 1
In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know

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