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By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness,
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o’ermastereth not!



Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night !- as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my

breast ! SHAKSPERE.

Hard is the heart, and unsubdued by love,

That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh,
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,

Or freeze in cold insensibility.
Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell

The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow !
Nor think it weakness when we love, to feel ;
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.




How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then,-
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again !



Lady I when the moonlight hour
Sheds its soft lustre o'er thy bower,
When the rich key of memory
Unlocks its golden treasury,

And visions sweet of bygone hours
Float round thee with the breath of flowers,
Oh! give one vesper sigh to me!
Remembering I am still to thee

Faithful, though far away!

Lady! when the deep midnight
Veils nature's loveliness and light,
When thy sweet lips in secret bless
The objects of thy tenderness,
And thy pure orisons arise
Wafting their names beyond the skies,
Oh ! breathe one fervent prayer for me!
Remembering I am still to thee
Faithful, though far away!



With thee for ever I in woods could rest,
Where never human foot the ground hath press'd.
Thou from all shades the darkness canst exclude,
And from a desert banish solitude.




He loved,—as minstrel-elf must prove,-
For song itself is born of love.

So the young glow and melting shower
Of April animate the flower
Perfume and suppliance of an hour ;-
Too exquisitely loved to last,
Such curse upon the lyre is cast :
Brief must they feel who feel the spell
Of love too sensitively well,
As fires of sudden vividness
Exhausted by their own excess.
And such the wreath his passion braided

For thousand bosoms, bright but vain,
Like cistus-bloom scarce blown till faded,

Scarce faded till full blown again ; Short-lived alike the bliss and pain. Thus still adored he, still endured, Wandering for ever, never cured.


Yes! so it is and the same thirst

For something high and pure, above
This withering world, which, from the first,

Made me drink deep of woman's love,
As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here,—
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever nought but death can slake.


When Virtue dies in pallid Want's embrace
Not friendless, though abandon’d by the base,
Then o'er the grave, from which all flatterers fly,
Love sheds a tear which kingdoms could not buy.
And, as the April sunbeams melt the snow,
Till peeps the golden flower that slept below,-
Thy look can charm the fiend beneath whose eye
All joys but thine and blest Religion's die,
The king of woes, pride-humbling poverty !

E. Elliott.

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They sin, who tell us Love can die :
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity.
In heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they had their birth.
But Love is indestructible !
Its holy flame for ever burneth :
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.


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