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We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love the lay
they sung, We pass with softer steps the place they filled our band
among ! But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves
on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth ! I go !—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice.Woods, mountains, home,
And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong ; And I will speak ! though but the wind that wanders
through the sky, And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams
reply, Yes! I will speak ! within my breast whate'er hath seemed
to be, There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed
for thee! Brightly it would have gushed, but thou--my mother !
thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been
His soul was overcharged with grief,
And yet he could not could not weep, Or shed one tear-whose kind relief
Might soothe his throbbing heart to sleep. No more his eyes can overflow
As once they could when he was sad, Or shed—'twas ecstacy of woe
Those tears which make the mourner glad.
Then grief could weep itself away,
And sorrow sob itself to rest;
The aching of that weary breast.
And calm that beating pulse of thine !
To vent the sorrow pent within !
Anon. ON SEEING THE DEAD BODY OF A YOUNG
If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee ;
That thou could'st mortal be:
The time would e'er be o'er,
last, And thou should'st smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again ;
That I must look in vain !
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ;
All cold, and all serenem
And where thy smiles have been !
Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave
And I am now alone !
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
In thinking too of thee:
Of light ne'er seen before,
Rev. C. Wolfe.
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel boy to the war is gone,
His father's sword he has girded on,
Though all the world forsake thee,
The minstrel fell—but the foeman's chain
TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RETURN
FROM A SEA VOYAGE.
They who have marked the blooming rose
From some loved features daily fade, And spite of tenderness disclose,
Each morning, but a fainter shade,