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Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,
Or yet may hope to share.
From hallowed thoughts so dear :
As they would love to hear.
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.
Oh how hard it is to find
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late
And sing Wo's me-Wo's me!
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!
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.
His coming to discover:
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;
To list their silken lashes.
ABSENCE 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.
When each is lonely doomed to weep,
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!
WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers,
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell;
And death seems in the word–farewell.
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
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,
Adown the gulf of Time!
As Adam saw her prime!
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb!
With dauntless words and high,
As if a storm passed by,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
That shall no longer flow.
pomp, his pride, his skill ;
And arts that made fire, floods, and earth,
The vassals of his will ;
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe;
beneath the scythe. Ev'n I am weary
skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
To see thou shalt not boast.
Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By him recalled to breath,