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Yes, Autumn's gloom to me is dearer
Than Spring, or Summer's sunniest smile;
And speaks a language far sincerer

Than their all cloudless skies. The wile Of Hope-life's darkly chequered vision,— Its passions, follies, pains, and fears; Its dimness and its quick transition,

Methinks, are emblemed in her tears, Her bright though fading hues, and even The tempests that deform her heaven.

November, 1819.


By foreign hands his dying eyes were closed;
By foreign hands his manly limbs composed;
By foreign hands his humble grave adorned;

By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned.


He left his home with a bounding heart,
For the world was all before him;
And felt it scarce a pain to part,

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him.
He turned him to visions of future years,
The rainbow's hues were round them;


And a father's bodings-a mother's tears—

Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.



That mother's cheek is far paler now,

Than when she last caressed him; There's an added gloom on that father's brow, Since the hour when last he blessed him. Oh, that all human hopes should prove

Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow; And the cankering fears of anxious love Ever end in truth-and sorrow!


He left his home with a swelling sail,
Of fame and fortune dreaming,—
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale,

Or the pennon above him streaming.
He hath reached his goal :-by a distant wave,
'Neath a sultry sun, they've laid him';
And stranger-forms bent o'er his grave
When the last sad rites were paid him.


He should have died in his own loved land,

With friends and kindred near him;

Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,
With no thought save of Heaven to cheer him.
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound
In the port where the wild winds swept him,
Than if home's green turf his
grave had bound,

Or the hearts he loved had wept him?


Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him;

Or share the griefs that may cloud the days'
Of the friends who now deplore him?

No: his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled,-
It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of Peace is riding.





HER golden ringlets float around her form
In bright but wild profusion; some repose
In radiant clusters on her stainless breast,
Like the rich beams of summer's noonday sun
On rocks of alabaster;-others stream
(Pennons of beauty to a bark of love)
Loose to the ocean breezes. Her blue eyes,
Lit with intenser and more passionate thought
Than would beseem the wonted air of
That characters her countenance, dart forth

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