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Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight !

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright,

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ?

Oh, sailor boy! sailor boy I never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main

Full many a fathom, thy frame sball decay.

No tomb shall c'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surgeBut the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

And winds in the midnight of winter tby dirge!

On a bed of sea-green flower thy limbs shall be laid,

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow, Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made,

And every part suit to thy mansion below.,

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll , Frail short-sighted mortals their doom must obey Oh, sailor boy I sailor boy ! peace to thy soul!



See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp,

From a beam of the rising moon; On the heathy shore at evening fall,

"Twixt Holy-Loch and dark Dunoon; Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare,

From the dew-clad, moorland flower, Invite my wandering footsteps there,

At the lonely twilight hour.

When the distant beacon's revolving light

Bids my lone steps seek the shore, There the rush of the flow-tide’s rippling wave

Meets the dash of the fisher's oar; And the dim-seen steam-boat's hollow sound; As she sea-ward tracks her

way; All else are asleep in the still calm night,

And robed in the misty gray.

When the glow-worm lits her elfin lamp,

And the night breeze sweeps the hill, It's sweet, on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon,

To wander at fancy's will.

Eliza ! with thee, in this solitude,

Life's cares would pass away,
Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun,
At the wake of early day.

Thomas Lyle.



Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,

An eloquence not given to mortals, new,
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,

I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verses musical, as thou art true,
Verse that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book,

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary! shine, And since thou own'st that praise I spare thee mine.




When, years of pain and peril past,

Man sinks into mature decay, And like a waning lamp at last

Exhausted nature dies away ;

Friends will lament the severed tie,

The strong links of affection riven ; Yet resignation lends a sigh

To waft the parted soul to heaven.

But when disease untimely sends

The prattler from the parent's knee, And on the bed of death extends

The child of happiest augury:

Then close the clouds of gloomy night

O'er bright anticipation's sky, And love and blasted hopes unite

To steep the soul in agony.

Such, innocent of heart! wert thou,

Sweet Catherine, such thy early doom, And so thy weeping parents bow

In sad bereavement o'er thy tomb.

the eye:

Still ring thy accents on the ear',

Still beams thy smile upon And retrospection's bitter tear

Flows from the font of memory.

Yet why should floods of sorrow flow

That thou, sweet little one, wert given To win the affections here below,

And bear them with thee back to heaven !

Religion tells us we shall meet

In regions of eternal day,
And mingle in communion sweet

When mortal things are past away.


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