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As danger deeper grew and dark,

Her hopes could conscience bring; And faith, and mind's immortal spark, Grew hourly brightening;

ng—'t was the lastJoy for the future !— for the past —

But thou art on the wing To track the source from whence it came, And mingle with thy parent flame!

One pang at

The nodding hearse, the sable plume,

Those attributes of pride, The artificial grief or gloom

Are pageants which but hide Hearts, from the weight of anguish free : But there were many wept for thee

Who wept for none beside, And felt, thus left alone below, The full desertedness of woe!

And many

mourned that thou should'st lie Where Dnieper rolls and raves, Glad from barbaric realms to fly,

And blend with Pontic waves; A desert bleak :-a barren shore, Where Mercy never trod before

A land whose sons were slaves; Crouching, and fettered to the soil By feudal chains and thankless toil !

But oft, methinks, in future years,

To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,

Shall be thy glorious lot!
And oft the rugged Muscovite,-
As spring prepares the pious rite, -

Shall tread the holy spot,
And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle Howard!

Those roses on their languid stalk

Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk

The myrtle and the bay,
Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant; but not with them,

Shall memory pass away,
Or pity cease the heart to swell —
To THEE there can be no FAREWELL!



Joy is upon the lonely seas

When Indian forests pour
Forth to the billow and the breeze

Their odours from the shore;
Joy, when the soft air's fanning sight
Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell

A wanderer of the deep,
Where far away the jasmines dwell,

And where the myrrh-trees weep!
Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam,
Are tidings of the citron's home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,

And Hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet

The fair earth's messengers,
That woo him, from the moaning main,
Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales

Of many a flowering glade,
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales

Of golden-fruited shade;
Across his lone ship’s wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.

And, oh! ye masters of the lay,

Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way,

Amidst her toiling throngs ?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.


Their is from the brighter clime

That in our birth hath part,
Their tones are of the world, which time

Seres not within the heart;
They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine,

Back to our early love,-
Our vows of youth at many a shrine,

· Whence far and fast we rove : Welcome high thought, and holy strain,

That make us truth's and heaven's again! Literary Souvenir.


An almost coldness autumn sky,
Elastic freshness in the air,
And yet the breeze but lazily

Uplifts the gossamer, —

Uplifts that mazy roof, whereon
A thousand shuttles have been piled;
O'er blade and stalk, o'er clod and stone,

It spreads on every side.

Turn to the sun,- and it will shine,
A fairy web of tapestry
Lighted in one far-stretching line,

Just like a moonlight sea.

Look back,-e'en there, their trammels slight
The spinners have as thickly spun ;
Yet they elude our prying sight,

Save when they meet the sun.

Strange work, ye tiny artisans,
Is this of yours, on dale and down!
The nat'ralist scarce understands

More of it than the clown.

Pardon that we your


sweep, For yon

old elms our steps invite, Round which a troop of swallows keep

A restless, graceful flight.

It is my chimney's full-fledged brood,
With sooty head and corslet grey,
And here they ply, for insect food,

Their skill in falconry.

Feed on, glad birds, you will not long
Scud round these meads in rapid ring;
A call is heard your sires among,

For each to imp his wing.

The summons has arrived; for flight
Our summer visitors prepare :
I saw a concave yesternight

Assembled in the air,

Incessant twittering filled the sky,
Just as the first star sparkled forth ;
I knew it as their gathering-cry,

Before they quit the North.

Twilight's grey vault was all astir
With the black swarm that speckled it,
Not long will they their voyage defer,

Their clarions sound retreat.

Their privilege I envy not,
Of living, wheresoe'er they roam,
In summer sunshine,-since 't is bought

At the expense of home!

Strangers ye are- - itinerants Pilgrims, that wend from feast to feastAn annual caravan, that haunts

This pleasant stage for rest.

No wanderer I— me 't would not suit
To have my sensibilities
Scattered, where they would bear no fruit,

'Neath ever-shifting skies ;

Plant-like, once fixed, I joy to spread
The fibres of intense affection
O’er one small circuit, where they feed

On sight and recollection.


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