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Recurred to memory; for she had been trained,
And taught to love, with fervency unfeigned,
I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,
In this brief state of trouble and unrest,
My theme is one of joy, and not of grief;
In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows,
Her strength was failing, but it seemed to sink
Her love for whom in every look was shown,
One summer morn they missed her :-she had been,
In her secluded oratory green,
They found her in her chamber, by the bed
upon her knees; with tender care
And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,
To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown. Literary Souvenir.
WORK WITHOUT HOPE.
LINES COMPOSED ON A DAY IN FEBRUARY
BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
All nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-
For me ye
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may
bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
NEAR FARNSFIELD, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE; WITHIN THE ANCIENT
BOUNDARIES OF SHERWOOD FOREST.
BY MARY HOWITT.
Fount of this lonely nook,
Hardly may heaven look
And in thy lucent wave,
Green ferns and mosses lave,
Beneath a classic sky
Thy hidden purity
King, warrior, bard divine,
Had mingled at thy shrine,
Then, from thy twilight dim,
Pæan and votive hymn,
Then odours sweet been shed,
From flower-gifts garlanded,
And marvel 't is thy spring,
So purely bubbling,
Strange, that beside thy well
No holy hermit's cell,
Fount of the forest! no—
Ne'er had a legend - traveller never came,
Childhood, nor crippled age,
On wearying pilgrimage
As now, 'mong mosses green,
Dim in thy leafy screen,
The squirrel on the tree,
The birds' blithe melody,
Even then thy cool retreat
Lured the tired peasant's feet;
And, from the hunter's dart,
Here fled the wounded hart,
Pure fount! there need not be
Proud rites' solemnity,
The soul to thought of Heaven,
'T is by thy silence given,
There is a spell of grace
Around this quiet place,
Whence? but that man's weak arm
Hath not dissolved the charm Which Nature forms in her calm solitude. Literary Magnet.
BY CYRUS REDDING, ESQ.
Thou sword upon my
belted vest, Why glitters thus thy polished crest, Kindling high ardours in my breast,
From thy bright beams?-Hurrah!
A horseman brave supports my blade,
Through blood and death.-Hurrah !
Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
A first dear bride. -Hurrah !
Soldier of Freedom, I am thine!
Joined in the field ?-Hurrah!
When the shrill trumpet's summons flies,
And join our hands.—Hurrah!
O welcome union! haste away,
To wear thy wreath.-Hurrah !
Why restless in thy scabbard, why,
Thou heardest now.-Hurrah !