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“ Gem of the crimson coloured even,
O thou! whose holy light is softly streaming
Forth from the portals of the fading west ! Lulling the wild heart, by thy placid beaming,
To rest-yet not to calm and dreamless restBut twined with many a vision from afar
What art thou-wondrous star ?
Parent of many thoughts! that—upward swellingSpurn the thick veil which wrapped them all day
long; And round the Spirit's throne—their silent dwelling
In vivid, freshening lustre, brightly throng! Whence is thy mighty power—thine influence ?—say,
What art thou-glorious ray ?
Whence—and what art thou ?— What the secret spell
That binds the burning bosom still to thee? Whence are the visions in thy train that dwell —
The crowding thoughts that strive for mastery? How art thou linked, in thy distant reign,
With human bliss or pain ?
How art thou blent with all mysterious things
And aspirations of the glowing breast ?
And vainly, vainly seek on earth for rest ?
The burning gaze of love?
Why, when thy thrilling beams are nightly trembling
Far in the distance of the blue serene,
To tell the soul of all that once hath been?
Why come they still with thee ?
Why bring'st thou voices that have long been fled?
And beams from eyes—that now are beaming not? Why call'st thou back the dead or worse than dead
The lost—the false—but ah !--the unforgot? And bidst the heart-companionless—again
Pine for the past in vain ?
How is thy speaking ray—thus sad—yet dear?
How doth the spirit-all alone-belowThe fiery soul, that finds no kindred here,
Pour forth to night and thee its love—and woe? How doomed, the cold and heartless world to flee,
Finds it a friend in thee?
Strange—that it should be thus !—is thine the place
Where all the soul's young dreams are garnered in? Its warm first loves, that scarce retained a trace
Of human selfishness, or grief, or sin ? All-all of bright, of holy, and of pure,
That might not here endure ?
Art thou a part of that mysterious flame
That lives and burns within the human breast ? Another-a more glorious-yet the same
So-worn with earth-we turn to thee for rest; Turn from the turbid streams of care and strife
To quaff thy fount of life?
Whate'er thou be, whom hallowed dreams surround
Hail to thee-hail! Love's own-his guardian star! Thine is the lustre, ’mid the blue profound
Than all the orbs of night more glorious farThine is the power to speak—with thrilling tone;
Unto the heart alone.
BETWEEN THE PRINCESS BRIDGET PLANTAGENET, AFTERWARDS ABBESS OF DARTFORD,
AND HER ROYAL MOTHER.
BY MRS. C. GORE.
“ And must I leave thee, mother,— leave
My sports, my playmates frank and free? Oh! who will soothe me when I grieve,
And hold me fondly on her knee? And who will strain me to her breast,
And who will give that nightly kiss Which lulls me now so well to rest,
And charms my sleep with dreams of bliss !”
II. “ Yes! thou must go, my blessed child;
Henceforth the Temple of thy God
Enfolded in its blest abode.
There, heavenly thoughts prevail alone.” “ But are they worth one gentle word
Breathed in mine own sweet mother's tone?”