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READING "PAUL AND VIRGINIA

O gentle story of the Indian Isle!

IN CHILDHOOD.

I loved thee in my lonely childhood well,
On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell

Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms,
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell,
And watch the Southern Cross through midnight
calms,

And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love, kind, trustful, true,
Lighting the citron groves-a heavenly guest-
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew.
Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's

power

To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.

THOUGHT AT SUNSET.

Still that last look is solemn-though thy rays,
O Sun! to morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to Nature's heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half fearful: and in days
When Earth too much adored thee, what a swell
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell;
O Sun of Greece! O glorious festal sun!
Lost, lost! for them thy golden hours were done,
And darkness lay before them. Happier far
Are we not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd.
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd,

Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power
Your unworn pastoral images retain

O'er the true heart, which, in its childhood's hour,
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camel's train!
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain,

The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock.
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how blest,

Are these things link'd, for many a thoughtful breast, With household memories, through all change endear'd!

The matin-bird, the ripple of a stream,

Beside our native porch, the hearth-light's gleam,
The voices earliest by the soul revered!

ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

What secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden East, with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow.

Rapt in high thought, though weary, faint, and slow,

Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind,
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass'd the shepherd-fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home

Lay in bright peace? O thou, true Eastern Star! Saviour, atoning Lord! where'er we roam,

Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain Their hope the fair lost birth-right to regain!

TO AN AGED FRIEND.

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,
Servant of God! thy day is almost done!
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about the setting sun,
That which the meekness of decay hath won
Still from revering love.-Yet doth the sense
Of Life immortal-progress but begun-
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline,
And the loved flowers which round thee smile
farewell

Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven.

A HAPPY HOUR.

Oh! what a joy to feel that in my breast
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay
Still pure, though heavily and long-repress'd
By early-blighted leaves, which o'er their way
Dark summer-storms had heap'd! But free, glad
play

Once more was given them;-to the sunshine's glow
And the sweet wood-song's penetrating flow,

And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn odours, forth they sprung, Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o'er them hung,

And of immortal life!-a germ, unwrought In childhood's soul to power, now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene!

MRS. HEMANS.

NIGHT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BRANNER.

GATHER, ye sullen thunder clouds;
Your wings, ye lightnings, wave,

Like Spirits bursting from their shrouds:

And howl, thou wild and dreary storm,
Like echoes of the grave,

Sounds of the brothers of the worm.

Ay, wilder still, ye thunders, roll,
Ye lightnings, cleave the ground:
Ye cannot shake the Christian soul:

In God's high strength she sits sublime,
Though worlds were dust around;
Defying Chance, outliving Time.

THE LONELY HEART.

THEY tell me I am happy-and
I try to think it true;
They say I have no cause to weep,
My sorrows are so few;
That in the wilderness we tread,
Mine is a favour'd lot;
My petty griefs all fantasies,
Would I but heed them not.

It may be so; the cup of life
Has many a bitter draught,
Which those who drink with silent lips
Have smiled on while they quaff'd.
It may be so; I cannot tell

What others have to bear,
But sorry should I be to give
Another heart my share.

They bid me to the festive board,
I go a smiling guest,

Their laughter and their revelry
Are torture to my breast;
They call for music, and there comes
Some old familiar strain;
I dash away the starting tear,
Then turn-and smile again.

But oh! my heart is wandering
Back to my father's home,
Back to my sisters at their play,
The meadows in their bloom,

The blackbird on the scented thorn,
The murmuring of the stream,
The sounds upon the evening breeze,
Like voices in a dream;

The watchful eyes that never more
Shall gaze upon my brow,

The smiles-Oh! cease that melody,
I cannot bear it now!

And heed not when the stranger sighs,
Nor mark the tears that start,

There can be no companionship

For loneliness of heart!

SARAH STICKNEY.

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

WHY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That ev'ry body knows;

You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won't propose!

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons

I'm ever on the watch;

I've hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,

Alas! he won't propose!

I've tried to win by languishing

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books, and talk'd of them As if I'd read them through!

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