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LOVE'S DISSENSIONS.

ALAS! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air-a look,

A word unkind, or wrongly taken-
O love, that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this, liath shaken;
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day ;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said ;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds-or like the stream
That smiling lest the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part for ever.

MOORE. THE GLORY OF GOD IN NATURE.

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see : Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee! Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.

When Day with farewell beam delays,

Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues that mark the day's decline, So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.

When Night, with wings of stormy gloom,

O’ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with a thousand dyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower the Summer wreathes,

Is born beneath that kindling eye; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.

MOORE. 107

JERUSALEM.

Fallen is thy throne, O Israel !

Silence is o'er thy plains !
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee

On Etham's barren shore !
The fire from heaven that led thee,

Now lights that path no more!

Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem;

Once she was all thine own! Her love thy fairest heritage,

Her power thy glory's throne, Till evil came and blighted

Thy long-loved olive-tree, And Salem's shrines were lighted

For other gods than thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma,

Then passed her glory's day, Like heath that in the wilderness

The light wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod; And sunk those guilty towers,

Where Baal reigned as God.

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“Go," said the Lord, “ye conquerors,

Steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements,

For they are not the Lord's.

Tell Zion's mournful daughter

O'er kindred bones she'll tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter

Shall hide but half her dead.

But soon shall other pictured scenes

In brighter vision rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine

On all her mourner's eyes ;
And on her mountains beauteous stand

The messengers of peace;-
“Salvation by the Lord's right hand !”
They shout and never cease.

MOORE.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake!
Go put thou forth thy small white rose:

I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull

That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoins are !
How delicate thy gaudy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem !
How soft thy voice when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them!

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While silent flowers are falling slow,

And, ʼmid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone

Hath laid her weary head !
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhool's blossoming hour,
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er,
In freedom and in joy.

ELLIOT.

STEAM IN THE DESERT.

“God made all nations of one blood,” And bade the nation-wedding flood

Bear good for good to men: Lo, interchange is happiness! The mindless are the riverless!

The shipless have no pen!

What deed sublime by them is wrought?

What type have they of speech or thought?

What soul-ennobled page?
No record tells their tale of pain !
Th’unwritten History of Cain

Is theirs from age to age !

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