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Let me feel the downy wafting

Of innumerable wings,

Feel the touch, and gain warm glimpses

Of the rarest fairy things;
Till a white aurora gathers

Up my starless arc of sky,
And a love-winged Iris beckons
'Cross a summer realm of joy.
Wrap me from myself, O music,
On thy surging sea of balms :-
Quiet-quiet-let me slumber
On the lulling after-calms.

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And thereupon a dreamy dreaming came.
If I should wake no more?-Oh, hope desired!
How will this body fare-will it repose,
Untouched, unseen by one adventurous eye,
Until the storms have beat it into dust?
Or will it sleep, in widely scattered dust
Where the fair winds of heaven excite the storms,
A fragment in the ambush of the fox;
One in the sea-haunt of the cormorant ;
Another in the eagle's eyrie home?

Where will their ashes sleep? Oh! wearisome
And long is life-bold, friendless, hopeless, bad!
How sweet is sleep when one is wearied out !
How sweet is death when life is gone to aye!
Methinks that I could sleep upon the crest
Of any restless wave, as did my Master
Upon the raging sea of Galilee-

I am so tired; come to me, gentle sleep!

THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LITTLE

"FRAGMENT"

WAS FOUND AMONGST THE POET'S MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.-ED.

IND when the first green leaves came budding out
Upon the gooseberry and the currant trees,

We raised him, and he gazed a long wrapt look Through the green window o'er the daffodil beds; Then smiled, and said, "Please mother, go and bring The one small twig with tiny leaves at top."

I got him one, and then a withey twig
With little yellow goslings dotted o'er.
He look'd them round as if examining

Their web and thread-the marvel of their make;
Then kissing them, looked up and softly said,
"Thank God, thank God! I've seen the leaves again."
I stand alone amid the human world;

No hand falls softly on my fever'd brow;
No tender voice gives shape to pitying words
That loving, lingering eyes are pregnant with.
'Tis sad to have no friend, no love, and none
To feel a passing interest in one's dreams.
The Western Bard says, "None was ever yet
So utterly alone and desolate,

But that some kindred heart responded to
The secret beatings of his own." But, ah!
I stand apart upon the sunless hills,
Outside the centre of all human ties;
I stand upon the hills where nothing grows

But shrivell'd penury and stunted care,
And where the chill wind of adversity
Beats ever on my white and stony brow.

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O Fate! I only asked thee for a friend,
A tender, loving, sympathizing friend;
I never hoped to win a dearer tie.

O Fame! I only ask'd thee for a wreath,

A simple wreath to please my friend withal.

O Life! I only asked thee for a moderate lease,

A simple, quiet lot, ungilded by

The gloss of wealth and power, but blessed with health.
O Earth! they have not deign'd to hear my prayer;
Thou wilt be kinder to me, Mother Earth,

And give me all I ask of thee, I know—
A quiet resting-place.

BEMROSE AND SONS, PRINTERS, LONDON AND DERBY,

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CATALINA, THE SPANISH NUN; And other Poems. By J. WIMSETT BOULDING. Foolscap 8vo. Elegantly bound in Cloth, price 3s. 6d.

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