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And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by

my side : In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest

cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life

so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young

friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers.

BRYANT. Note.—We have placed the two preceding specimens of foreign and native

poetry, on the same subject, together, that the reader may draw a fair comparison between them.

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As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland,-longing much to greet
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourns there,
Deep thought and dismal, yerging to despair,
Fills my sad breast : and tired with this vain coil
I shrink dismay’d before life's upland toil,
And as amid the leaves the evening air
Whispers still melody, I think, ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak!
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
And mournful phantasies upon me throng:
And I do think with a most strange delight
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

H. K. WHITE.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently on thy victim's head,
Qonsumption, lay thine hand! Let me decay
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the deadi
And if 'tis true what holy men have said
That strains angelic off foretell the da
Of death to those good men who fall #y prey,
O, let th' aerial music round my bed
Dissolving slow in dying symphony
Whisper the solemn warning to my ear:
That I may bid my weeping friends good bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear;
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
H. K. WHITE.

-*EVENING MUSIC OF THE ANGELS.

Low warblings, now, and solitary harps,
Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned
As to an evening hymn, preluding soft
To cherub voices. Louder as they swell'd,
Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments,
Mix'd with clear silver sounds, till concord rose
Full as the harmony of winds to heaven;
Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies
To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening *
Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds
Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks,
The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe,
Blent with the dulcet distance-mellow'd bell,
Come, like the echo of his early joys:
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,

A nl homies stole faintly down. nd heavenly symph HILLHouse. TO A CHILD.

Thy memory, as a spell
Of love, comes o'er my mind—
As dew upon the purple bell—
As perfume on the wind;—
As music on the sea—
As sunshine on the river;--
So hath it always been to me,
So shall it be for ever.

I hearthy voice in dreams

Fo me softly call,
Like echoes of the mountain streams
In sportive waterfall.
I see thy form as when
Thou wert a living thing,
And blossom'd in the eyes of men,
Like any flower of spring.

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I hear, in solitude,
The prattle kind and free,
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
So strong each vision seems,
My spirit that doth fill,
I think not they are dreams,
But that thousivest still.

ANON. SON G.

FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowing in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come, thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;

The o whose feet shall bless

With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy very glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone,
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!

Then fly with me—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,_
Fresh as the fountain under-ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin’d place;—

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THE snow! the snow!—'tis a pleasant thing
To watch it falling, falling
Down upon earth with noiseless wing
As at some spirit's calling;
Each flake is a fairy parachute,
From teeming clouds let down,
And earth is still, and air is mute,
As frost's enchanted zone.

The snow! the snow!—behold the trees
Their fingery boughs stretch out,
The blossoms of the sky to seize,
As they duck and dive about:
The bare hills plead for a covering,
And, ere the gray twilight,
Around their shoulders broad shall cling
An arctic cloak of white.

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