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Tas pious man,
In this bad world, when mists and conchant storns
Hide Heaven's fine circlet, sprinşs alat in fatin
Above the clouds that threat him as he Zeits
Of ether, where the day is senza reli
With intervening vapeus; at inis nomes

upon the troublows en iz mis
The earth's fair breast, that sa The setze ize
To grovelling mortals frovus ant tatkaessal:

But on whose billowy back from mas cometa The glaring sunbeam plays

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Through my lattice leaf embower'd,
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,
And o'er my silent sacred room,
Casts a checker'd twilight gloom ;

I throw aside the learned sheet,
I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.

Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,

Or why am I so frail ?
Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards;
Surely like me thou’rt sad, but dost not speak

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far
From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.

O GIVE me music—for my soul doth faint;

I 'm sick of noise and care; and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.
Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,

Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,
When all is still; and now it grows more strong,

As when the choral train their dirges weave,
Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,

O’er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. Oh! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,

And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell ! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,


Ah! who can say, however fair his view,

Through what sad scenes his path may lie ?

Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,
Secure his own will never need it too?
Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue,

Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye

The illusive past and dark futurity; Soon will they know

And must thou go, and must we part?

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit; The pang

that rends in twain my heart, Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it? Thy sex is fickle,—when away,

Some happier youth may win thy

When I sit musing on the checker'd past,

(A term much darken’d with untimely woes),

My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd ;--and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,

I say to her she robb’d me of my rest,

When that was all my wealth.—'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart;

Though wrong d, I love her-yet in anger love,

For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible
The native pride of my much injured heart.


When high romance o’er every wood and stream

Dark lustre shęd, my infant mind to fire, Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream,

First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre; All there was mystery then, the gust that woke

The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge,
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke,

To their light morrice by the restless surge.
Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles,

Too much
The vagrant fancy spreads no more her wiles,

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.

Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that swept

The low and pensive wires,

Robb’d of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes-it is still—the lyre is still ;

The spirit which its slumbers broke

Hath passed away,--and that weak hand that woke
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.
Yet I would press you to my lips once more,

Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy;
Yet would I driuk the fragrance which ye pour,

Mix'd with decaying odours; for to me
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,

As in the wood-paths of my native

Once more, and yet once more,

I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay; I heard the waters roar,

I heard the flood of ages pass away.

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