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But now methinks thy fervent love

Is changed to scorn severe;
And songs that other hearts approve

Seem discord to thine ear.

When last thy gentle cheek I prest,

And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest

prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours;
Spring bids full many buds to swell,

That ne'er can grow to flowers !
Literary Souvenir.


This is the loveliest scene in all the land ;

Around me far a green enchantment lies,

Fed by the weeping of these April skies, And touched by Fancy's fine, “all-charming wand.” Almost I expect to see a lightsome band

Come stealing through the hazel boughs, that cross

My path, or half asleep on bank of moss, Some Satyr, with stretched arm and clenched hand.

It is a place all beauty. There, half hid By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run The river waters swift to meet the sun;

And in the distance, in its boiling might, The fatal fall is seen, the thundering Strid;

And over all, the morning blue and bright!




Why, when the souls we loved are fled,

Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed

In sunshine and in showers ?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,

In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,-
Ray of the life that once hath been!

It is that we would thence create

Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date

Eternally to last.
It is, to hallow — whilst regret
Is busy with their actions yet,

The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.

Such, and so fair, in day's decline

The hues which Nature gives;
Yet-yet-though suns have ceased to shine,

Her fair creation lives :
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,

Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.

Else, why when rifled stands the tower,

The column overthrown,
And, record of man's pride or power,

Crumbles the storying stone;

Why does she give her ivy-vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,

If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,
To glory's shade an ampler span!

Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,

Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,

Of beauty in repose :
Though all thy oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,

Whilst there one wild-flower blows
To claim a fond — regretful sigh,
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.

Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres

Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,

Thy diadems and thrones !
Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!

And still Pelides owns,
By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph—a grassy sod!

They were the mighty of the world,

The demigods of earth;
Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,

And gave the battle birth;
They lived to trample on mankind,
And in their ravage leave behind

The impress of their worth :
And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.

But thou, mild benefactor -- thou,

To whom on earth were given

The sympathy for others' woe,

The charities of heaven;
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm ;

To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!

They live not in the sepulchre

In which thy dust is hid, Though there were kindlier hands to rear

Thy simple pyramid, Than Egypt's mightiest could commandA duteous tribe, a peasant band

Who mourned the rites they did Mourned that the cold turf should confine .A spirit kind and pure as thine !

They are existent in the clime

Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,

And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,

The pestilent abode,
Are thy memorials in the skies,
The portals of thy paradise.

Thine was an empire o'er distress,

Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,

The friend of human kind!
Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,

In glory shall be shrined !
Whilst other Nields and CLARKSONS show
That still thy mantle rests below.

I know not if there be a sense

More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,

Balm to the sufferer's smart,
And freedom to captivity!
The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh,

Might grace an angel's heart;
And e'en when sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert thou !

Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,

Amid the general doom,
Long stood’st thou as the traveller stands,

Where breathes the lone simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,
Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,

Another — all is gloom;
He looks — the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now!

But deadlier than the simoom burns

The fire of Pestilence;
His shadow into darkness turns

The passing of events :
Where points his finger, - lowers the storm;
Where his eye fixes, — feeds the worm

On people and on prince!
Where treads his step—there glory lies;
Where breathes his breath, — there beauty dies!

And to the beautiful and young

Thy latest cares were given;
How spake thy kind and pitying tongue

The messages of heaven!
Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,
Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,

Like lily-flowers at even:
Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed !

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