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BRILLIANT and beautiful!—And can it be
That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light—
Upon thy cheek no smile !—I little deem'
At our last parting, when thy cheering voice
Breath'd the soul's harmony, what shadowy form
Then rose between us, and with icy dart
Wrote, “Ye shall meet no more ?' I little deem'd
That thy elastic step, Death's darken'd vale
Would tread before me.

Friend! I shrink to say

Farewell to thee. . In youth's unclouded morn
We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower,
And win it for our pleasure, or our pride.
But when the stern realities of life
Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms
Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes
A healing essence, and a strengthening charm,
Next . hope of heaven. §. was thy love,
Departed and deplored. Talents were thine
#. and bright, the subtle shaft of wit,
And that keen glance of intellect which reads,
Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs
Of human action. Yet such meek regard
For others' feelings, such a simple grace
And singleness of purpose, such respect
To woman's noiseless duties, sweetly blent
And temper'd those high gifts, that every heart
That fear'd their splendour, loved their goodness too.
I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls
Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone
Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld
Their bright expansion o each o year.
To them the sacred name of daughter
All images of comforter and friend, -
The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain,
Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, Wings.

hat shall console their sorrow, when young morn

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Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile

filial love doth mark it?—or when eve Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone, So long the treasure of their list'ning heart, Uttereth no music 2

Ah!—so frail are we—
So like the brief ephemeron that wheels
Its momentary round, we scarce can wee
Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share
The clay of those we mourn. A narrow point
Divides our grief sob from our pang of death;
Down to the mould'ring multitude we go,
And all our anxious thoughts, our fever'd hopes,
The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage
In deep oblivion rest. Then let the woes
And joys of earth be to the deathless soul
Like the swept dew-drop from the eagle's wing,
When waking in his strength, he sunward soars.



O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie,
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When Earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue—
The very rainbow showers

Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the East,
The gardens of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run:
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!


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SPRING is abroad ' the cuckoo's note
Floats o'er the flowery lea;
Yet nothing of the mighty sea
Her welcome tones import:
Nothing of lands where she has been,
Of fortunes she has known ;
The joy of this remember'd scene
Breathes in her song alone.
No traveller she, whose vaunting boast
Tells of each fair but far-off coast:
She talks not here of eastern skies,
But of home and its pleasant memories.

Spring is abroad' a thousand more
Sweet voices are around,
Which yesterday a farewell sound
Gave to some foreign shore;
I know not where—it matters not;
To-day their thoughts are bent,
To pitch, in some sequester'd spot,
Their secret summer tent; , .
Hid from the glance of urchins' eyes,
Peering already for the prize;
While daily, hourly intervene
The clustering leaves, a closer screen.

In bank, in bush, in hollow hole
High on the rocking tree,
On the gray cliffs that haughtily
The ocean waves control;
Far in the solitary fen,
On heath, and mountain hoar,
Beyond the foot or fear of men,
Or by the cottage door;
In grassy tuft, in ivy'd tower,
Where'er directs the instinctive power,
Or loves each jocund pair to dwell,
Is built the cone, or feathery cell.

Beautiful things! than I, no boy
Your traces may discern,
Sparkling beneath the forest fern,
With livelier sense of joy:
I would not bear them from the nest,
To leave fond hearts regretting;
But, like the soul screen'd in #: breast,
Like gems in beauteous setting,
Amidst Spring's leafy, green array
I deem them; and, from day to day,
Passing, I pause, to turn aside,
With joy, the boughs where they abide,

The mysteries of life's early day
Lay thick as summer dew,
Like it, they glitter'd and they flew,
With ardent youth away:
But not a charm of yours has faded,
Ye are full of marvel still.
Now jewels cold, and now pervaded
With heavenly fire, ye o -
And kindle into life, and bear
Beauty and music through the air:
The embryos of a shell to-day;
To-morrow, and—away! away!

Methinks, even as I gaze, there springs Life from each tinted cone; pring

And wand'ring thought has onward flown
With speed-careering wings,
To lands, to summer lands afar,
To the mangrove, and the palm;
To the region of each stranger star
Led by a blissful charm:
Like toys in beauty here they lay—
They are gone o'er the o: ocean's spray;
o are gone to bowers and skies more fair,
And have left us to our march of care.
W. HowITT.

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How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their o glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some—oh well may their hearts rejoice,
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must, ere night, be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die, -
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

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