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Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne.
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst
Thoughts which have turned to thunder—scorch—and


But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be—if such have ever been;
Our's be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
• To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanished beam—and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.

Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three 1
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your master—emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
He was your brother—bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind—as various in their change,
While Eloquence—Wit—Poesy—and Mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on Earth,
Survive within our souls—while lives our sense
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness—long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die—in moulding Shfridan!


\^VtTHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet heloved in vain; The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet—no —ne'er again! Could this have been—a word, a look

That softly said, •. We part in peace, » Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thec

Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shall see,

Who held, and holds thec in his heail? Oh! who like him had watched thee here?

Or sadly maiked thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere Death appear,

When silent Sorrow fears to sigh, Till all was past ? But when no more

'T\vas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flowed as fast—as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day

In these, to me, deserted lowers, Ere called but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

()urs too I ho glance none saw beside;

The smile none else might understand; The whispered thought of hearts allied,

The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss so guiltless and refined

That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind,

Ev'n passion blu.-hed to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thce, to repine; The song celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me. from none but thine; The pledge we wore — I wear it still,

But where is thine ?— ah ! where art tlou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom

The cup of woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again; Put if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek .1 fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me — too early taught by thec!

To bear, forgiving and forgiv'n: On earth thy love was such to me;

It fain would form my hope in hcav'u!

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Away, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days—

But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am, on what I was.


The voice that made those sounds more sweet

Is hushed, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

A. dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,

Beloved dust! since rlust thou art; And all that once was hnrmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!


'Tis silent all!—but on my ear

The well-remembered echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now nrght well be still, Yet ofl my doubting soul 'twill shake:

Ev'n slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.



Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turned from earth ils tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heav'n is veiled in wrath, Will long lament the vanished ray

That scattered gladness o'er his path.


One struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bving;

Man was not formed to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now.

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