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For this obedient zephyrs bear

Her light seed round yon turrets mold, And undispersed by tempests there,

They rise in vegetable gold.

· Nor shall thy wonder wake to see,

Such desert scenes destruction crave, Oft have they been, and oft shall be

Truth's, honour's, valour's, beauty's grave.

" When longs to fall that rifted spire,

As weary the insulting air,
The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,

The lover's sighs are sleeping there.

When that too shakes the trembling ground,

Borne down by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round

Startles-how still their hearts will lie,

• Of them who, wrapped in earth so cold,

No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

Hast thou not seen some lover pale,

When evening brought the pensive hour, Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,

And stop to pluck the fragrant flower ?

• Those flowers be surely means to strew

On lost affection's lowly cell,
Tho' there, as fond remembrance grew,

Forgotten from the hand they fell.

• Has not for thee the fragrant thorn

Been taught its first rose to resign, With vain, though pious fondness borne,

To deck thy Nancy's honoured shrine ?

• 'Tis nature pleading in the breast,

Fair memory of her works to find ; And when to fall she yields the rest,

She claims the monumental mind.

"Why else the o'ergrown paths of time

Would thus the lettered sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb,

And on the doubtful sculpture pore ?

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Why seeks be with unwearied toil,
Thro' death's dim walks to

urge
bis

way, Reclaim his long asserted spoil,

And lead oblivion into day ?

“ 'Tis nature prompts, by toil or fear

Unmoved, to range thro' death's domain ;
The tender parent loves to hear
Her children's story told again.'

Langhorne.

THE TEAR.

On beds of snow the moon-beam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept

Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb !

A warm tear gushed; the wintry air

Congealed it as it flowed away : All night it lay an ice-drop there,

At morn it glittered in the ray.

An Angel, wandering from her sphere,

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,

And hung it on her diadem.

Moore.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

But be, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free ;
He, too, who yet bad held untired
A spirit natural or inspired-
He, too, was struck, and, day by day,
Was withered on the stalk away.
Oh God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In

any

mood : I've seen it rushing forth in blood,

any shape, in

I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of sin, delirious with its dread;
But these were horrors-this was woe
Unmixed with such—but sure and slow :
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sink away
As a departing rainbow's ray-
An
eye

of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright,
And not a word of murmur--not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,-
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silencelost
In this last loss, of all the most ;
And then the sighs he would suppress,
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less;
I listened, but I could not hear-

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