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النشر الإلكتروني

Thy journey is across the waves,

Upon the roaring deep;
And thou may’st rest in ocean caves,

While we, thy kindred, sleep.
But go; we ask thee not to stay ;

The fortune thou dost seek, Is looked for by the glad and gay,

The sombre and the meek.

Our prayers for thee ascend on high,

Thy safety and thy weal ; And may the memory never die

Of what this hour we feel.
Farewell, farewell !-thy course is bright;

May it be ne'er o'ercast,
Or suffer from the poisonous blight

Of dire affliction's blast.

Ode to Morning,

Written at a period of unusual depression.

Hail Morning, garbed in yellowness!

Back, Night, into thy bed,

Nor show again thy darksome head! But let the Sun with golden mellowness

Tinge all the azure plain ;
And stamp with light the fields of corn,
The whitened cot, the blossomed thorn,

And flowers that droop with rain.

Hail Morning, pregnant with delight

To victor enemy,
To captives loosed, to monarchs gem-attire
To youths whose long minority's expired,

To forest beasts that roam,
And now reseek their home,

Burthened with spoil,
To feathered tribes that warble now,
To deers that leap the mountain's brow,

And crop the soil,—
To all the world but me!

Lo, Phoebus his diurnal course retakes !

Look, look, he rises from the sea,
How like a robed divinity-

What rapid strides he makes!
The other planets skulk and hide themselves

F

When he appears, And all the numerous train, Of stars attending Cynthia in her wane,

Display their fears, And vanish like a band of winged elves.

See as he

peeps from out his wavy couch, With lightsome spring

The larks take wing, And up towards heaven soar;

And as they fly

Along the sky,
The ærial elements they skim

While warbling forth their matin hymn The prowling fox doth to his burrow crouch ;

And drowsy herdsmen sleep no more.

Weleome Aurora !

Thou that bringest life and health,
In whom men gather surest wealth,
All the world looks gay,

As the new-born day,
Blushing with ruby smiles of joy,

Glad it receives ;
From every mountain peak
The lively squirrel seems to speak ;

From every tree,

With heartfelt glee,
The speckled thrush without alloy

Its 'livening sonnet gives;

And charmeth with its song the listening crowd, While of its honey'd tones it waxeth proud;

And higher on the tree, Where its sweet notes are heard more loud, It percheth, and is listened to with pleasure, As it sounds forth, bright sun, thy praise

In its extatic lays ; While gladness is enveloped in each measure

Gladness to all but me.

I sit upon this lofty brow,
And gaze upon the scene around,
From sea to lake-from lake to solid ground;

But nought attracts me now,-
My happy moments hence are fled,
I seek my peace amongst the dead ;

Aly heart is chilled ;-
My gladness is for ever checked,
My spirits are for ever wrecked ;
Nature no longer hath the charms for me

That I could once within her see,-
My mind with melancholy thoughts is filled.

The Erile's Happy Hour.

The morn, the morn, the beautiful morn,

When the beam cometh o'er the sea ; And the sparkling gems on the blossoming thorn,

And the songster upon the tree.

The noon, the noon, the glorious hour,

When the burning sun's on high, And Nature smileth on plant and flower

In her fulness of majesty.

The eve, the genial eventide,

When the fanning zephyrs play ;
In the date-tree grove the warblers hido,

And the sun hath sped his way.

But morn, and noon, and stilly eve,

Are the same to the exiled slave; In secret silence his heart doth grieve

For his home the Isle of the brave,

But the night, the night, the clear calm night,

When the stars are in the sky,
And the meteors flash so wild and bright

O'er the heavens' blue canopy.

Then balmy sleep, with her magic wand,

Sets the fettered captive free; And he visits again his native land

In the dream,—sleep's mystery!

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