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Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,
That each should dream of joys he's had,

Or yet may hope to share.
Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallowed thoughts so dear :
But drink to them that we love most,

As they would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN Napoleon was flying

From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu ! “And take;" he said, “ this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath." Sore mourned the brother's heart,

When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warned to part,

And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him,

For that gallant soldier sighed; But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

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Oh how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;

And if that one should be

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False, unkind, or found too late
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing Wo's me-Wo's me!
Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where bliss's stream we seldom taste,

And still more solemn flee Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings ; Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Wo's me!

SONG.

EARL March looked on his dying child,

And smit with grief to view herThe youth, he cried, whom I exiled,

Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover:
And her love looked up to Ellen's bower,

And she looked on her lover

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To list their silken lashes.

ABSENCE 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,

It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance

Of absence, that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,

When each is lonely doomed to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,

Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness,

Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,

Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet

The pain without the peace of death!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers,

Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell;
Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word–farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet, oh! no, no, no.
Time, while I gaze upon thy sweetness,

Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my

soul? Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, . But not together-no, no, no!

THE LAST MAN.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His

pomp, his pride, his skill ;

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And arts that made fire, floods, and earth,

The vassals of his will ;
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like
grass

beneath the scythe. Ev'n I am weary

in
yon

skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death -
Their rounded gasp and girgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,--
The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By him recalled to breath,

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