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To my cousin.
On our wearisome journey through life,
When beauty and youth are our own ; Mid spirits all buoyant and rife,
We think of the present alone.
But there comes a cessation at last,
As years slowly follow our track ; The days of our dreaming are past,
And vainly we summon them back.
Qh thus, when our bosoms were young,
Together we listlessly strayed, Together in joyousness sung,
Together in innocence played.
But now what a change we discover;
Our playmates of childhood have fled: With some these endearments are over,
And others—they sleep with the dead !
Still, Eliza! there's one, tho' unworthy,
Whose thought of these days cannot cease, Whose coldest and weakest wish for thee,
Is happiness, pleasure, and peace.
He claims not the title of lover,
Within thy affections to blend; And his highest ambition is over,
When counted a cousin and friend.
The Wreck of the Syria,
Which foundered in a violent storm, off the Sunderland coast,
in December, 1840, having been launched the previous day.
She bounded in her beauty
On the fresh and joyous tide,
To-day the Ocean's bride.
The gently-blowing breeze,
The bright and tranquil seas.
But consort false old Neptune proved ;
The winds waked o'er her head,
Upon a rocky bed ;
His breath the thundering blast,
That fiercely o'er her passed.
She struggled like a wayward girl
That giant fingers press,
And spurned that wild caress,
By ruthless strength o'erborne ;
Her bridal vestments torn.
The good ship's gone:-her first and last
Of voyages is o'er;
Where life shall be no more.
surge ; And the sea-mew shrieks exultingly
The Syria's funeral dirge.
Oh!’tis a piteous thing to see
A gallant ship a wreck,
Upon her wave-washed deck ;
Each grasp his messmate's hand, And with a wild good bye, go down
In sight of fatherland.
On the Death of my Mother.
A mother's loss may be felt, but can never be estimated.
I remember-'tis a long time since
A vision o'er me smiling,
The light-wing'd hours beguiling.
A pale face on a bed ;
And they told me she was dead.
I was glad, and my heart beat merrily
As I looked at the horses prancing, And I laughed in boyhood's mirth to see
In the wind the dark plumes dancing.
By the sable hearse to tread;
O’er the bier of my mother dead.
They laid her in the lone churchyard,
Insensate, I did not cry ;-
For a tear was in every eye.
“We are left alone,” he said ; “Thy mother is gone to her last long sleep
Thy mother, my boy, is dead!"
Years passed away, and a stranger came;
But I knew not she was come
O’er father's heart and home.
Religion's paths to tread : My father's house was no home for me,
My mother, alas, was dead!
Years still wear on a wanderer
Am I upon the earth;
The race that gave me birth.
Of relations I have fled ;
And her mother, too, is dead.