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Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell-farewell-until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave;
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.


IN her bower a widow dwelt,

At her feet three suitors knelt ;
Each adored the widow much,
Each essayed her heart to touch.
One had wit, and one had gold,
And one was cast in beauty's mould.
Guess which was it won the prize-
Purse, or tongue, or handsome eyes?

First appeared the handsome man,
Proudly peeping o'er her fan;
Red his lips and white his skin-
Could such beauty fail to win?
Then stepped forth the man of gold,
Cash he counted, coin he told;

Wealth the burden of his tale,
Could such golden projects fail?

Then the man of wit anu sense
Wooed her with his eloquence;
Now, she heard him with a sigh!
Now, she blushed, she knew not why;
Then she smiled to hear him speak→
Then a tear was on her cheek!

Beauty, vanish! gold, depart!
Wit has won the widow's heart!


REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say,

Went on a party of pleasure one day.

Folly played

Around the maid,

The bells of his cap rung merrily out;
While Reason took

To his sermon-book-

Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page,
Till Folly said,


Look here, sweet maid !"

The sight of his cap brought her back to horself,

While Reason read

His leaves of lead,

With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
-no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

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Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap"There it is,"

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!"

(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) "Under the sun

There's no such fun,

As Reason with my cap and bells on his head,
Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before;
While Folly took

Old Reason's book,

And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton,

That Beauty vowed

(Though not aloud)

She liked him still better in that than his own,
Yes,-liked him still better in that than his own.



THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

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And so 'twill be when I am gone-
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.


FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?—
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl !
But when the wind blows off the shore,

O! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers—
O! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs!
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

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ANCIENT of days! august Athena! where,

Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone-glimmering thro' the dream of things that were: First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and passed away-is this the whole? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon, and the sophist's stole, Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come, but molest not yon defenceless urn:
Look on this spot—a nation's sepulchre !
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.
Even gods must yield-religions take their turn:
'Twas Jove's 'tis Mahomet's-and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on


Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven-
Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go,
Thou know'st not, reck'st not, to what region, so
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?

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