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Who could twine round the thoughts, of thy bosom so kind,

And then from thy presence could fly,

Who could turn to another, with mutable mind,
And leave thee heart-broken to die!

Moore.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill;
Oh, no! it was something more exquisite still!

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should

cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

Moore.

FROM THE MINSTREL.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor gnat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,

If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend?

Or shall frail man heaven's dread decrees gainsay,

Which bade the series of events extend

Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end?

One part, one little part, we dimly scan

Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,

If but that little part incongruous seem.
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem ;

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
O then renounce that impious self-esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

Beattie.

FROM THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds untravelled by the sun!
Where time's far wandering tide has never run;
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss.
Daughter of faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;

Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul !
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill.—

Campbell.

MOONLIGHT.

When the sun is laid in his purple shroud

Bathed by the dews of the sea,

And the moon's pale light through her fleecy cloud,

Shines dimly over me;

In an hour so still the whispering sigh

Of winds breathed o'er the wave,

And to list to the sea bird's funeral cry,
Over the warrior's grave!

Are dearer to me, than the flaunting ray
The glorious sun shoots down

From his sapphire throne in the blaze of day,
Girt with the diamond crown.

O'er mountain and vale, o'er yon misty deep,

O'er man the lord of all,

This balmiest hour hath poured her sleep,
And spread her drowsy pall.

Oh! now to the young enthusiast's soul
Rise aspirations high,

Flung on the rocks, o'er the ceaseless roll,
Of dark immensity.

A blighted heart-and a sleepless eye,
May now step forth unseen,

And wake from their slumber its visions of joy,
On memory's pageant scene.

Each pinnacle crag seems a lordly tower,
Turret, and donjon fence,

And each hawthorn glade hath its roseate bowers
Of love and innocence.

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