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Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,

Or mown in battle by the sword,

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Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost.

The spirit shall return to him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!

No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By him recalled to breath,

Who captive led captivity,

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Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy

holds me up

On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou sawest the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod,

The darkening universe defy

To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

THE BROKEN HEART.

Campbell.

Ah! little I thought, when with thrilling delight,

I watched the fond gaze of thine eye;

That so soon thou would'st fade like a dream from our

sight,

Heart-broken, to linger and die.

'Twas mournful to sit by thy pillow and mark

The paleness that dwelt on thy cheek;

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Thy cold marble brow with its ringlets so dark,
Thy patience so holy and meek.

'Twas awful to list to thy musical voice,

Like a lute heard by night from the wave;

And think that the tones which made others rejoice, So soon should be quenched in the

grave.

I saw thee, sweet girl! worn down to a shade,

How changed from what thou wert before; All the magical glow of thy features decayed, Like a rainbow when tempests are o'er.

'Tis past !-thou art laid in the cold silent tomb,
And often with desolate heart,

All lonely I stray in the dim twilight gloom
To the turf in whose bosom thou art.
Thy sorrows are ended-thy pilgrimage o'er,
Thy woes and thy wishes have rest,

In the Sabbath of peace, 'mid the joys of that shore,
Where the stainless in spirit are blest.—

But woe unto him who could bask in the glow,
Of thy trusting and innocent heart,

Could add balm to thy blisses, partake of thy woe,
And become of thy being a part.—

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Who could twine round the thoughts, of thy bosom so kind,

And then from thy presence could fly,

Who could turn to another, with mutable mind,

And leave thee heart-broken to die!

Moore.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill;
Oh, no! it was something more exquisite still!

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should

cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

Moore.

FROM THE MINSTREL.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor gnat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,

If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,

If but a momentary shower descend?

Or shall frail man heaven's dread decrees gainsay,

Which bade the series of events extend

Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end?

One part, one little part, we dimly scan

Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,

If but that little part incongruous seem.

Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;

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