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STANZAS. They say that the light of her eyes is gone, That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan; That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild, Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child. For the melting glance of her soft blue eye Is chill'd by cold insanity; And the beauty that her bright form wore, Is the shrine of a living soul no more. And her words discourse not music sent From reason's govern'd instrument; But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play. I would not look on her alter'd brow, Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now; I would not view her pale, pale cheek, Nor hear her, in her madness, speak; Nor see her smile, she knows not why, While her tears flow down unmeaningly; Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token Of a brain o'erwrought, and a young heart broken. No-on these things I would not look, For the brightest gift in Fortune's book; For she was join' with the fairest things That rose in my youih's imaginings. And oh! how oft have I turn'd away From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay, That soul might drink, to sweet excess, The light of her pensive loveliness. But her languid eye shall charm no more,-. Her smiles and her tears--they are nearly o'er; For fond hopes lost, and her heart o'erladen, Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.
I LOVE to set me on some steep
And hear the waters roar;
Then burst upon the shore.
the distant vale;
And bend before the gale.
And hear the tinkling sound
Then swell in echoes round.
I love to range the valleys too,
Which rear their heads on high,
And overhead the sky.
While rolling down the west;
In purple robes is dress’d.
And see ten thousand worlds of light
O'er the vast vault profound.
Up to the shining height,
And charm the ravish'd sight.
And reach my native plain,
Yes, Music hath the key of Memory;
MYSTERIOUS keeper of the key,
The exile listens to the song
A. A. WATTS.
THE LAST TEAR. SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet Lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek, And on its fringe a tear, like a lone star Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts O’ the western cloud that veils the April even. The veil rose up, and with rose the star, Glittering above the gleam of tender blue, That widen'd as the shower clears off from heaven. Her beauty woke,-a sudden beam of soul Flash'd from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear.
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
WHITE bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean,
The cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow, Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green,
An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow.
White bud! thou’rt emblem of a lovelier thing,
The broken spirit that its anguish bears
MY NATIVE VALE.
DEAR is my little native vale,
In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
the race at eve.
The shepherd's hom at break of day,
that never fail,