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Beloved by every gentle Muse He left his Transatlantic home! Europe, a realized romance, Had opened on his eager glance; What present bliss !-what golden views ! What stores for years to come! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised-or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; The words of truth's memorial vow, Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred ; As evening's fondly lingering rays, On Righi's silent brow. Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; And piety shall guard the Stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resign their preyAnd that which marks thy bed. And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; This tribute from a casual Friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother." * The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the aflicted Moth. r felt was derived from the tribute to her son 'r meu ry, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, froin her Vanghter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.
Oh what a wreck! how changed in mien and
speech! Yet-though dread Powers, that work in mystery,
spin Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart—reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To Her from heights that Reason may not win. Like Children, She is privileged to hold Divine communion ; both to live and move, Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them-in Her our sins and sorrows past.
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.
'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,-'mid the
joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a
stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain.
A Farmer he was ; and his house far and near
Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection-as generous as he.
Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,—
For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,
Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm.
To the neighbors he went,—all were free with their
money ; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth ;-He continued his
rounds, Knocked here--and knocked there, pounds still
adding to pounds.
He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,
You lift up your eyes !—but I guess that you frame
To London-a sad emigration I ween-
green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his
hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.
All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,-
He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is
stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;
You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.
For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, Like one whose own country's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.
This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats ? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets ; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the
Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
flowers, Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.
'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw,