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How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,

A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue

That washed my sweet meals down;
The master even !- and that small Turk
That fagg'd me! — worse is now my work -

A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again;
I'd “kiss the rod,” and be resigned
Beneath the stroke, and even find

Some sugar in the cane!

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed,
The Fairy Tales in school-time read

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked

Exactly like Miss Brown!

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Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach! -
The joyous shout, the loud approach,

The winding horns like rams!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the “jams!”

Oh when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,

My mates were blithe and kind !-
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,

To cast a look behind!

Literary Souvenir.



She scarcely seemed of mortal birth,

But like a visionary form,
That came to bless our lowly earth ;-

Unmindful of the storm,
She stood, and oft her golden hair
Did float in the perturbed air.

Her voice was soothing to my heart,

And could celestial joy dispense;-
For still it sweetly seemed to impart,

*No storms will injure innocence,'
As, bending o'er the golden grain,
She sung the wildly plaintive strain.

Thus, while to mark the moonlight pale,

I seek the crystal streams,
Her beauteous form is seen to sail

In fancy's airy dreams,
And hovers in the silvery ray,
The guardian spirit of my way!



Thou art not silent!-oracles are thine
Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears,
Lingering, ʼmid ruined fane and broken shrine,
O'er many a tale and trace of other years !
Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears
That warps thy cradle-land-thine earthly love-
Where hours of hope, 'mid centuries of fears,

Have gleamed, like lightnings through the gloom above,
Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove!

Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past
Are vocal ! — and, along thine ivied walls,
While Elian echoes murmur in the blast,
And wild flowers hang, liķe victor-coronals,
In vain the turbaned tyrant rears his halls,
And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters ! —
Now, even now, the beam of promise falls

Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters,
And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters !

Thou art not silent! - when the southern fair,
Ionia's moon, looks down upon thy breast,
Smiling, as pity smiles above despair,
Soft as young beauty, soothing age to rest,
Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest;
And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours !
Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest,

Her lay-half hope, half sorrow - from the flowers,
And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers !

* The temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens, was commenced by Pisistratus, on a scale of great magnificence, but never completed.

And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born
Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept
From him who waked Aurora every morn,
And sad as those he sung her till she slept !
A thousand, and a thousand years

have swept O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring A wreck in youth !-- nor vainly hast thou kept

Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing, And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string !




Once, by the dusk light of an ancient hall,
I saw a Horologe. Its minutes fell
Upon the roused ear, with a drowsy knell,
That he who passed attended to the call.
I looked: and lo! five antics over all.
One moved, and four were motionless. The one
Was scythed and bald-head Time; and he moved on,
Sweep after sweep_and each a minute's fall.
-The four were kings. – Sceptres they bore, and globes,
And ermined crowns. Before that old Man dim
They stood, but not in joy. At sight of Time,
They had stiffened into statues in their robes ;
Fear-petrified. Let no man envy him
Who smiles at that grave Homily sublime!


Morn on the waters !-and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly un;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale ;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along.
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart !
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves !-- and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters !—asleep on their breast,
Seems not to the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who—as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty—could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within ?
Who—as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing

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