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THE DYING WIFE.
H. M. T.
AY my babe upon my bosom,
Let me feel her sweet, warm breath;
I am passing through the waters;
away thy tears.
Lay my babe upon my bosom-
Tell her sometimes of her mother;
Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping,
If in after years, beside thee
NEW POEM BY LORD BYRON.
N the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam
falls Through silence and shade o'er its desolate
walls, It shines from afar like the glories of old: It gilds but it warms not, -'tis dazzling but
Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days;
And the step that o'er-echoes the gray floor of stone
And vain was éach effort to raise and recall
And theirs was the wealth and the fullness of fame,
And theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore, And mine to regret, but renew them no more.
And ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall,
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
LEST pair of syrens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
song pure concent,