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The fairest forms—the dearest things-
The hours that took the spirit's wings!

Words-places-brightness that hath found A memory sad and dark !

Oh youth! had I no hope

To share thy good once more,
Methinks I should despise the lore,
The garnered thought-the wisdom deep,
In which dim age the soul would steep,

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.

MRS. HEMANS.

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.

MISS JEWSBURY.

MONARCH, pictured here in state,

Better glories yet were thine,
Than the grandeur of the great,

Than the jewels of the mine.

Born to govern and command,

Thou wast easy of control;
With a sceptre in thy hand,

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
Could not joy or pride impart,

Thou hadst treasures more than they.

More than courtiers kneeling low;

More than flattery's ready smile ;
More than conquest o'er the foe;

More, even more, than England's isle.

Treasures in which mind hath part;

Joys that teach the soul to rise ;
Hopes that can sustain the heart,

When the body droops and dies !

Therefore, Star, thou art not shaded

By the darkness of the tomb!
Royal Rose! thou art not faded,

But in Paradise dost bloom!

WOMAN.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume :
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair,

And the spirit that sat on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has filed,
And every charm has now left the dead.

Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.

And this is man's fidelity!

'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.

NIGHT.

MILLHOUSE.

Tue night wind moans around me; there's a mood
Of melancholy vibrates on its wings ;
The soul imbibes its tones of solitude;
They bear a record of departed things,
Which haply probe the heart with forked stings,
And drive remembrance into former years,
And rex the mind with woe's disquietings;

While a dark scroll Anticipation rears,
Marked with a transcript vile depicting unborn cares,
Now sobs and howls the fluctuating gale:
Methinks I see the ship 'midst mountain waves,
Toppling and plunging as their peaks assail
Her crashing sides; while the fierce tempest raves,
And delves in darkness its unfathomed graves,
And straight refills them to the sea-bird's cry,
Which screams a funeral dirge, 'midst rocks and

caves,
For drowning seamen ; while the rattling sky
Rolls its inconstant clang of dreadful harmony.

There is sublimity pervades the sound
Of wintry storms, although they bring distress
To wretched man: what organ tones are found
To match the peals of ocean's wilderness !
And even this tempest, though it sorely press
On the faint pilgrim, shrinking from its fangs,
Speaks with a voice of awful holiness!

And, in yon depth of forest glooms, harangues
With an unanswered speech, that wakes conviction's

pangs.

Sweet is the breeze of spring, that wafts along
The breath of incense from unnumbered flowers,
And the full anthem of the woodland throng;
And sweet the gale that fans the summer bowers :
And oh! how doubly sweet is that which towers
To loftiest thrillings in the year's decline,
Wailing through falling leaves and pattering showers !

And dear the wintry storms; for all combine
To demonstrate a Power, Omniscient and Divine.

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