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Umile in tanta gloria.-PETRARCH

Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone,

Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone

Yet kindling onward to the perfect day; How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, oh, Thou of many gifts! for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here among us heard?
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in

every word,

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd.

How shall we mourn thee ?-With a lofty trust,

Our life's immortal birthright from above! With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,

Thro' shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, tho' for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd!
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,

Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd ;
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.

Praise for yet one more name with power endow'd,
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd,

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!

Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead, Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.

ST. ASAPH, Sept. 1826.


"WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall—
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams."

"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, Thro' the long bright hours of the summer-day, They find the red cup-moss where they climb,

And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they


Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Content thee, boy! in my bower to dweli,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard."

"Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,

To the babe half slumbering on her knee ;

I dreamt last night of that music low

Lady! kind lady! oh! let me go."


Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;

Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,

Nor hear her song at the cabin door.

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,

And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”


"Is my mother from her home away ?But I know that my brothers are there at play.

I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams


Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,

They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,

For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot."

"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,

And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,-
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go."

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