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From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace;
For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;
But patience shall never depart!

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,
In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd,
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!

Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again;
To bear is to conquer our fate.


T. Moore.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour

When pleasure, like the midnight flower, That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!

"Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing!

Oh! stay,-oh! stay,

Joy so seldom weaves a chain

Like this to night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet; the fount that play'd,
In times of old, thro' Ammon's shade,
Tho' icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near;
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter-brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,

Brings their genial hour for burning!

Oh! stay,-oh! stay,—

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake

As those that sparkle here!



I LOVE to set me on some steep,
That overhangs the billowy deep,
And hear the waters roar;
I love to see the big waves fly,
And swell their bosoms to the sky,
Then burst upon the shore.

I love when seated on its brow,
To look o'er all the world below,
And eye the distant vale;

From thence to see the waving corn,
With yellow hue the hills adorn,
Bow to the rising gale.

I love far downward to behold
The shepherd with his bleating fold,
And hear the tinkling sound
Of little bell and shepherd's lute,
Wafted on zephyr's soft, now mute,
Then swell in echoes round.

I love to range the valleys too,
And towering hills from thence to view,
Which rear their heads on high,
When nought beside around is seen
But one extended vale between,

And overhead the sky.

I love to see, at close of day,
Spread o'er the hills the sun's bright ray,
While rolling down the west;

When every cloud in rich attire,
And half the sky that seems on fire,
In purple robes is dress'd.

I love, when evening veils the day,
And Luna shines with silver ray,
To cast a glance around,

And see ten thousand worlds of light
Shine ever new and ever bright
O'er the vast vault profound.

I love to let wild Fancy stray,
And walk the spangled Milky Way,
Up to the shining height,
Where thousand thousand burning rays
Mingle in one eternal blaze,

And charm the ravish'd sight.

I love from thence to take my flight
Far downward on the beams of light,

And reach my native plain,

Just as the flaming Orb of day,

Drives night, and mists, and shades away,

And lights the world again.


Horace Twiss.

THOUGH my visions of life are soon to depart,
Yet sigh not, dear Helen! thus deeply for me:
The ling'ring pulsations that throb in my heart
Are only its fond apprehensions for thee.
Oh! sad are the perils that compass thy way,
For a season of sorrow and darkness is nigh:-
When the glow-worm appears at the close of the day,
Her lustre betrays her, and dooms her to die.

For me, love! no sweetwasting odours shall burn,
No marble invoke thee to deck it with flow'rs;
My ashes shall rest in a crystalline urn,

And that urn be abroad in the sun and the show'rs.
It shall lightly be swept by the cool-blowing gale,

When the gay-coloured evening shines cheerfully through: Around it the shadows of twilight shall sail,

And the mists of the morning embalm it in dew.

Sweet girl! may thy relics be laid in that shrine!

For though death, we are told, is unconscious of love, Yet it soothes me to hope they may mingle with mine, As our spirits will mingle for ever above. And if, when the race of our being is run, Any record remain of the loves that we bore, Our story shall be, that in life we were one,

And in dying we met, to be parted no more.

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