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THE WELCOME EVENING.
Let those that know no other bliss,
Than this poor dying life can give, Sigh when they think how short it is,
And how precariously we live.
But thou, my soul, hast joys in store,
May'st say, at ev'ry setting sun, Courage, my heart, come, one day more
Of a vain vexing life is gone.
Hail ye, sweet ev’ning shades! all hail!
Drive those intruding cares away ; Hide with your kind relieving veil
The sick’ning vanities of day.
Wrapt in these gentle shades I rest,
Hid from the world, the world from me; But oh! none knows how I am blest
In this divine obscurity
Thro' groves of bliss I seem to stray,
And, in the thickest glooms of night, I shine in everlasting day,
And blaze with intellectual light.
While half the world dream, start, and sleep,
And half cheat, fight, curse, rave, and groan, Then I'my silent jubil’ keep,
And hold my festival alone.
'Till morning's melancholy dawn
Lets in confusion and the day, And noise and tumult hurry on,
And chase sweet Salem's peace away:
How doleful all the world seems then!
How dismal what we here call day! The earth seems one vast howling den,
And men like rav'nous beasts of prey.
Oh! what is all that men call light,
Life, music, pomp, delight, and mirth, But raving dreams, and hideous night,
Howling and spectres, hell and death?
When will th' eternal morning dawn
Let'in salvation, and true day?
Rev. W. Richards.
Beneath the droppings of this spout,
Of FRANCIS THOMPSON;
To stain his reputation ;
To make her declaration.
Ollerton Church Yard. THE SIGH.
When youth his fairy reign began,
And w!en along the waves of woe
gnaws unseen; Theo, shipwreck’ui on life's stormy sea, I heav'd an anguish'd sigh for thee.
But soon reflection's power impress'd
And, tho' in different climes to roam
S. T. Coleridge.
BY A LADY
DESERTED BY HER LOVER.
I caught a bright fantastic cloud,
And in the glitt'ring moonlight dress'd it; Then, of the beauteous pageant prouid,
Too fondly to my bosom press'd it.
I fancied by the dubious light,
I saw my phantom sweetly smiling; My bosom throbb’d with wild delight,
All reason's sober fears beguiling.
What dreams of joy my soul revolu'd !
What pleasant visions hover'd o'er me! Till, by tl' incautious warmth dissolv'd,
My treasure faded from before me.
Condemn'd henceforward still to grieve,
My senses rove in wild confusion; Nor can I scarcely yet believe
My bliss was all a vain illusion.
From treach'rous hope will I no more
Deceitful forms of pleasure borrow;