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The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my browIt felt like the warning

Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.


They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-

Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well :Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

4. In secret we met

In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee

After long years,
How should I greet thee?-

With silence and tears.


“ O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
“ Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater
“ Felix! in imo qui scatentem
" Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”

Gray's Poemata.

1. THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's

dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,

which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth

itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of

happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in

vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never

stretch again.

* These Verses were given by Lord Byron to. Mr. Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.

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Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself

comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its

own ;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our

tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the

ice appears.

4. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth

distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their

former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and

gray beneath.


Oh could I feel as I have felt,

,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a

vanish'd scene : As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.


THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep ;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.


“ Alas! they had been friends in Youth;
“But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above :
And Life is thorny; and youth is vain :
“And to be wroth with one we love,
“ Doth work like madness in the brain :
* *


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" But never either found another
“To free the hollow heart from paining-
“ They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
“Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
“ A dreary sea now flows between,
“But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
“Shall wholly do away, I ween,
"The marks of that which once hath been.

Coleridge's Christabel.

FARE thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

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