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Oh, mercy! what can ail me ?
I'm growing pale and very lean;
What can it mean—what can it mean?
I'M NOT IN LOVE!-oh smother
Such a thought at seventeen:
What it can mean—what it can mean.
G. WALLINGFORD CLARKE
Is, we believe, a native of Kentucky. He has lately published a volume with the title of The Dreams of Pindus.
THE BURIED MAID.
And they have laid thee in thy narrow cell,
Maid of the matchless brow !—for the cold clay
So be it,—what the Almighty dooms is well,—
But who that saw thine eyes' bright glances play,
Thy cheek's fine fush, that mock'd the blooms of May, So late—could dream of death’s dissolving spell ?
To rapture love had sung" the bright eyed hour
And hope believed, and lighted up her bower;
Sudden the scene was changed-a radiant flower Sunk its sweet head—and love's glad song was vain !
WHOE'ER thou art, to whom this secret shade
HER eye is raised to heaven:--no ray is there
Of earthly pride, or passion. O’er her brow
Angelic, as she breathes the solemn vow,
In radiant ringlets, down her bosom fair
Falls—like the beams of morning on the prow
So young-so beautiful, to turn aside
From life's fresh opening scenes, and sunny hours,
Seems like religion's triumph—but the heart
The sigh will rise, the tender tear will start:
The Reverend William Croswell was graduated at Yale College in 1824. He was for two years joint editor with the Rev. G. W. Doane, of The Episcopal Watchman, a religious paper in Hartford. In this paper most of his poetry has been published; it evinces talent and good taste.
The white-stoled Bishop stood amid a crowd
Noviciates all-who, tutor'd to revere
The mitre's holy offices, drew near,
Pale with emotion and religious fear,
To hallow'd hands, that o'er them, one by one,
Thou who canst make the loadstone's touch impart
An active virtue to the temper'd steel,
Oh let thy hand rest on them till they feel
DRINK AND AWAY.
There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, which bears a name signifying “Drink and Away,” from the great danger of meeting with rogues and assassins.-Dr Shaw.
Up! pilgrim and rover,
Redouble thy haste!
Life's wearisome waste.
Thy footsteps betray
Oh drink and away!
Here lurks the dark savage,
By night and by day,
Nor scruples to slay.
The blood of his prey
Then drink and away!
With toil though thou languish,
The mandate obey,
There's death in delay!
Is fiercer than they :-
Or drink and away!
Though sore be the trial,
Thy God is thy stay,
Yield not in dismay,
But wrapt in high vision,
Look on to the day
Thy thirst shall allay.
Enjoy thy repose
For ever and aye,
Then, drink and away.
I KNEW my father's chimney top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye, And watch'd the blue smoke reeking up
Between me and the winter sky.
Wayworn I traced the homeward track,
My wayward youth had left with joy ; Unchanged in soul I wander'd back,
A man, in years—in heart, a boy.
I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee, And felt of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.
Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room ;
And Hermits are contented with their cells;
And Students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy ; Bees that soar for_bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells. In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,