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Your papa may look out for a horse,
And consult ma-I must not pay dear; He will think it no trouble, of course, Remembering for what you send here.
TO HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL.
My infant days were given!
While such the will of Heaven!
By thee inspired, the livelong day
Calm slumbers crown'd the night;
I sought and found delight.
'Twas thou, whene'er I ranged the mead,
Of tempting purple dye;
Allured my longing eye.
Why yield the ruling rein ?
A dire and gloomy train!
When Boreas sweeps the flood ? Can the soft virgin's voice restrain The midnight howlings of the plain,
When lions roar for food ?
So weak is reason to control,
When torn by passions wild; .
As voice of virgin mild.
Come then, resume thy guardian power,
To whom the charge was given!
Rev. MR. HOYLAND.
TO MY HARP.
Oh, my loved harp! companion dear!
Sweet soother of my secret grief,
No more afford a soft relief.
When anxious cares my heart oppress’d,
When doubts distracting tore my soul, The pains which heaved my swelling breast
Thy gentle sway could oft control.
Each well-remember'd practised strain,
The cheerful dance, the tender song, Recall’d, with pensive, pleasing pain,
Some image loved and cherish'd long.
When joy sat smiling o'er my fate,
And mark'd each bright and happy day, When partial friends around me sate,
And taught my lips the simple lay: And when, by disappointment grieved,
I saw some darling hope o'erthrown, Thou hast my secret pain relieved ;
O'er thee I wept, unseen, alone. Oh! must I leave thee, must we part,
Dear partner of my happiest days? I may forget thy much-loved art,
Unused thy melody to raise ;
But ne'er can memory cease to love
Those scenes where I thy charms have felt, Though I no more thy power may prove, Which taught my soften'd heart to melt.
Forced to forego with thee this spot,
Endear'd by many a tender tie, When rosy pleasure bless'd my lot,
And sparkled in my cheated eye; Yet still thy strings, in fancy's ear,
With soothing melody shall play; Thy silver sounds I oft shall hear, To pensive gloom a silent prey.
MRS. HENRY TIGHE
FUNERAL HYMN. O BEAUTIFUL the streams
That through our valleys run, Singing and dancing in the gleams
Of summer's cloudless sun!
The sweetest of them all
From its fairy banks is gone; And the music of the waterfall
Hath left the silent stone!
Up among the mountains
In soft and mossy cell,
The happy wild flowers dwell.
Hath wither'd in the wind,
In the blossoms left behind.
Birds cheer our lonely groves
With many a beauteous wing; When happy in their harmless loves
How tenderly they sing ! O'er all the rest was heard
One wild and mournful strain, But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird,
She ne'er must sing again!
I saw a sleeping dove!
The sunlight lay in love:
Round the beauty of that breast, But the startled dove afar is flown!
Forsaken is her nest!
In yonder forest wide
Å flock of wild deer lies,
And shades their peaceful eyes!
Hath singled out the doe, In whose light the mountain flock lay bright,
Whose hue was like the snow!
A thousand stars shine forth
With pure and dewy ray,
Seem gladdening in the day.
Though a thousand lights be there,
And shorn her golden hair!
What! though the stream be dead,
Its banks all still and dry!
In the air groves of the sky.
The queen-rose might not save!
She springeth from the grave.
What! though our bird of light
Lie mute with plumage dim!
I hear her angel hymn.
No more with our dove's calm sleep,
In heaven's untroubled deep!
True that our beauteous doe
Hath left her still retreat-
She lies at Jesus' feet.
Why should we weep for thee!