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I see thee rising from the depths of ocean,

Sporting in triumph on the billowy foam; Whilst each tumultuous wave, each wild commotion, Wafts thee still nearer to thy own bright home.

And now thou'rt fled! yet still the pleasing vision
Hovers around me with a radiant gleam;

But, oh! the splendour of each new transition,
Fades like the fleeting phantom of a dreain.

Great spirit! whom I worship and adore,
Thou art my guide and my director here;

I long to join thee on a happier shore,
With the bright spirit of the 'waters clear,

To sing thy praise.

ANONYMOUS.

THE REMEMBRANCE.

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FROM HUSBAND HUNTING, OR THE
MOTHER AND DAUGHTERS," 1825.

COME to my heart, thou pledge of love!
And while with life its pulses move,
In absence, peril, far or near,
Come to my heart, and rest thee here!
My days of youth are gone and past,
My manhood's hour is overcast ;

My later destiny may have

A wanderer's life, a stranger's grave;
But whether eyes of love shall weep
Where thy pale master's relics sleep;
Or whether on the wave or plain,
This bosom shall forget its pain;

Yet where I rove, or where I fall,

To me thou shalt be all in all.

Come to my heart! When thou art nigh,

The parting hour is on mine eye;

I see the chesnut ringlets roll'd

Round the bright forehead's Grecian mould,

The ruby lip, the pencil'd brow,

The cheek s delicious April glow,

The smile, a sweet and sunny beam

Upon life's melancholy stream;

The glance of soul, pure, splendid, high—

Till all the vision wanders by,

Like angels to their brighter sphere;

And leaves me lone and darkling here!

THE SEPTEMBER FROST.

DAVID MACBETH MOIR. FROM "THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE, WITH OTHER TALES AND POEMS; BY DELTA." 1825.

WITHIN a wood I lay reclined,

Upon a dull September day, And listen'd to the hollow wind,

That shook the frail leaves from the spray.

I thought me of its summer pride,

And how the sod was gemm'd with flowers, And how the river's azure tide

Was overarch'd with leafy bowers.

And how the small birds caroll'd gay,
And lattice-work the sunshine made,

When last, upon a summer day,

I stray'd beneath that woodland shade.

And now!-it was a startling thought,
And flash'd like lightning o'er the mind,-
That like the leaves we pass to nought,
Nor, parting, leave a track behind!

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Go trace the church-yard's hallow'd mound, And, as among the tombs ye tread,

Read, on the pedestals around,

Memorials of the vanish'd dead.

They lived like us-they breathed like us― Like us, they loved, and smiled, and wept; But soon their hour arriving, thus

From earth like autumn leaves were swept.

Who, living, care for them?-not one!
To earth are theirs dissever'd claims;
To new inheritors have gone

Their habitations, and their names!
Think on our childhood-where are they,
The beings that begirt us then?
The Lion Death hath dragged away
By turns, the victim to his deu !
And springing round, like vernal flowers,
Another race with vigour burns,
To bloom awhile, --for years or hours,-
And then to perish in their turns!

Then be this wintry grove to me
An emblem of our mortal state;
And from each lone and leafless tree,
So wither'd, wild, and desolate,

This moral lesson let me draw,

That earthly means are vain to fly

Great Nature's universal law,

And that we all must come to die! However varied, these alone

Abide the lofty and the less,Remembrance, and a sculptured stone, A green grave and forgetfulness.

A LOVER'S BALLAD.

66

MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. FROM THE AMULET," 1831.

SHE'S in my heart, she's in my thoughts,
At midnight, morn, and noon;
December's snow beholds her there,
And there the rose of June.

I never breathe her lovely name
When wine and mirth go round,
But, oh, the gentle moonlight air
Knows well the silver sound!

I care not if a thousand hear
When other maids I praise;
I would not have my brother by,
When upon her I gaze.

The dew were from the lily gone,
The gold had lost its shine,
If any but my love herself

Could hear me call her mine!

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