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When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither-yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee-by thee forsaken;

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way withont the will.—

Fare thee well!-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,

Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted-More than this I scarce can die.



WHEN "Friendship, Love, and Truth” abound

Among a band of Brothers,

The cup of joy goes gaily round,

Each shares the bliss of others:

Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow:

The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again tomorrow:

How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!

On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;

Old Time lays down his seythe and glass,
In gay good humour smiling:

With ermine beard and forelock grey,

His reverend front adorning,

He looks like Winter turn'd to May,

Night soften'd into morning!

How grand in age, how fair in youth,

Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

From these delightful fountains flow

Ambrosial rills of pleasure:

Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
We'll form a Constellation,

Where every Star, with modest light,
Shall gild his proper station.

How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!”


W. Reader, Jun.

OH! come thou not near my hallow'd home.
Tho' thy bosom's as fair as ocean's foam;
Tho' thy voice to my ear sheds wizard chime,
Like the wild wistful lay of a former time;
Yet come thou not near my hallow'd cell,
For thou art not she who should break my spell.

Tho' thou art so like the girl I knew,

That my mem'ry loses her form in you;

Tho' the page of thy heart may be fair and true,
As the heart she gave me once to view;

Yet come thou not near my hallow'd cell,
For thou art not she who should break my spell.

Oh! that bosom be thine, if fair its hue;
And thine be that heart, if the heart is true;
And list to the voice, if thou lov'st it's chime,
For thou hast heard it in former time:
And take me home to thy hallow'd cell,
The only she who can break thy spell.

The stars in the lake shine pale, and blue,
And the stag he is couch'd amid the mountain dew;

The moss-cover'd paths night shadows o'er,
But the lady returns from the wilds no more;
He has taken her home to his hallow'd cell,
The only she who could break his spell.


T. Moore.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves,
But, oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write

With a pencil of light,

That illum'd all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name!.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies;-"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

"I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.

"For, tho' Heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, "And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;-"But, oh! there is not

"One dishonouring blot

"On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's name!

"And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, "The grandest, the purest e'en thou hast yet known; "Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, "Go plead for the land that first cradled thy fame--"And bright o'er the flood

"Of her tears and her blood

"Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON's name!


W. Reader, Jun.

NIGHT is falling o'er the dark heath,

Our wild path looks drear;

Winds are howling round the couch of death;
Rain patters o'er the bier.

Few, ah! few have parted from the red moor,
Where we fought the deathful fray;
And whilst we chant thy fame o'er,
Scarce a voice shall swell the lay.
The beam of thy youth has shone;
We shall bear thee to thy hills;
Thy falcon eyes are dim, and wan,
And our lips thy cold cheek chills.

When the dun-deer starts at evening's wind,

Thro' his branchy horns that sighs;

When near him cow'rs the timid hind,

And scarcely breathing lies;

When the broad moon redd'ning thro' the mists shall rise,

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