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النشر الإلكتروني



WHY should we crave a hallow'd spot?
An altar is in each man's cot;

A church in every grove that spreads
A living roof above our heads.



AFFLICTION then is ours:

We are the trees whom shaking fastens more, While blustering winds destroy the wanton towers, And ruffle all their curious busts and store.

My God, so temper joy and woe,

That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.



HIST! When the airy stress

Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds,
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds
Eolian magic from their lucid wombs;
Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs ;
Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;
Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave
Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot;
Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,
Where long ago a giant battle was;
And from the turf a lullaby doth pass
In every place where infant Orpheus slept.



I CANNOT sleep; my eyes' ill-neighbouring lids
Will hold no fellowship. O thou pale sober night,
Thou that in sluggish fumes all sense dost steep;
Thou that givest all the world full leave to play
Unbend'st the feeble veins of sweaty labour!
The galley-slave, that all the toilsome day
Tugs at the oar against the stubborn wave,
Straining his rugged veins, snores fast;

The stooping scythe-man, that doth barb the field,
Thou makest wink sure; in night all creatures sleep,
Only the Malcontent, that 'gainst his fate

Repines and quarrels: alas, he's Goodman Tell-clock;
His sallow jaw-bones sink with wasting moan;
Whilst others' beds are down, his pillow's stone.


THERE stands before you

The youth and golden top of your existence,
Another life of yours: for, think your morning
Not lost, but given, pass'd from your hand to his,
The same except in place. Be then to him
As was the former tenant of your age,

When you were in the prologue of your time,
And he lay hid in you unconsciously

Under his life. And thou, my younger master,
Remember there's a kind of God in him;
And, after Heaven, the next of thy religion.
Thy second fears of God, thy first of man,
Are his, who was creation's delegate,

And made this world for thee, in making thee.



SEE how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,
And, murmuring, then subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on Time's eventful sea;

And, having swell'd a moment there,
Thus melts into Eternity!



LET thy mind still be bent, still plotting, where
And when, and how thy business may be done.
Slackness breeds worms; but the sure traveller,
Though he alights sometimes, still goeth on.
Active and stirring spirits live alone.
Write on the others-Here lies such a one.



AND lo! from opening clouds I saw emerge
The loveliest moon that ever silver'd o'er
A shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soar
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul,
Commingling with her argent sphere, did roll
Through clear and cloudy, even when she went
At last into a dark and vapoury tent-
Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyèd train
Of planets all were in the blue again.


THE jars of brothers, two such mighty ones,
Are like a small stone thrown into a river,


The breach scarce heard; but view the beaten current,
And you shall see a thousand angry rings
Rise in his face, still swelling and still growing;
So jars circle in distrusts; distrusts breed dangers,
And dangers death (the greatest extreme) shadow,
Till nothing bound 'em but the shore-their graves.


In her face,

Though something touch'd by sorrow, you may trace
The all she was, when first in life's young spring,
Like the gay bee-bird on delighted wing,
She stoop'd to cull the honey from each flower
That bares its breast in joy's luxuriant bower!
O'er her pure forehead, pale as moonlit snow,
Her ebon locks are parted; and her brow
Stands forth like morning from the shades of night—
Serene, though clouds hang over it.



We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most; feels the noblest; acts the best.


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AS BEAUTITUL POETRY is a good medium for Advertisements, and as only a few can be inserted, the following will be the Scale of Charges:

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Just published, price 2s. 6d. Second Edition,



Composed, and

respectfully dedicated (by express permission) to her Grace the Duchess of Bedford, by JOHN T. GRIBBELL, Tavistock

To be had of ADDISON and HOLLIER, 210, Regent-street; all respectable Music-sellers; and the Author.

"It is one of the best Polkas that has come under our notice; it ought to become a great favourite, for it is well arranged, and speaks well for the composer's knowledge of music."-Plymouth Journal, November 25, 1852.

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