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FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
"Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell! -Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel ;
I only know we loved in vain-

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!


BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,

When we know that thy God is with thee


Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest


WHEN we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.


The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.


They name thee before me,
Aknell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.


In secret we met

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.



"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
"Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
"Felix! in imo qui scatentem

"Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

Gray's Poemata.


THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes


When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull


'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be



Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.

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