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The fairest forms—the dearest things-
Words-places-brightness that hath found A memory sad and dark !
Oh youth! had I no hope
To share thy good once more,
The fruit which proves the flower is o'er,And worship thee with tears.
But, blessings on a golden faith!
I see the everlasting hour, When back thou com’st in all thy power; With friends and freedom, joy and grace ; With blessings from each time and place:
Life, love, and thou our triple dowerOh happy, happy youth!
A FAREWELL SONG.
I go, sweet friends! get think of me,
When spring's low voice awakes the flowers, For we have wandered far and free
In those bright hours—the violet's hours !
I go--but when you pause to hear
From distant hills the sabbath-bell
On summer's wind float silvery clear,
Think of me then-I lov'd it well!
Forget me not around your hearth,
When clearly shines the ruddy blaze; For dear hath been its hour of mirth
To me, sweet friends! in other days !
And oh! when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to tender thoughts are stirr'd,
Think of me then I go, I go!
THE YOUTHFUL KING. Suggested by a Picture of Edward the Sixth,
in his royal robes.
MONARCH, pictured here in state,
Better glories yet were thine,
Than the jewels of the mine.
Born to govern and command,
Thou wast easy of control;
There was meekness in thy soul.
Of thy haughty father's frown,
Little on thy brow we trace,
And that little softened down
By simplicity and grace.
Child in age, and child in heart,
Thy magnificent array
Thou hadst treasures more than they.
More than courtiers kneeling low;
More than flattery's ready smile ;
More, even more, than England's isle.
Treasures in which mind hath part;
Joys that teach the soul to rise ;
When the body droops and dies !
Therefore, Star, thou art not shaded
By the darkness of the tomb!
But in Paradise dost bloom!
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And the spirit that sat on her soft blue eye,
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
And this is man's fidelity!
'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Tue night wind moans around me; there's a mood
While a dark scroll Anticipation rears,
There is sublimity pervades the sound
And, in yon depth of forest glooms, harangues
Sweet is the breeze of spring, that wafts along
And dear the wintry storms; for all combine