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LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

MOORE. Oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright,

My heart's chain wove;' When my dream of life from morn till night, Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life,

As love's young dream;
Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life,

As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear,

His soul-felt flame;
And at ev'ry close she blush'd to hear

The one lov'd name.

Oh, that fairy form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love traced ;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste :

'Twas odour fled,

As soon as shed,
'Twas morning's winged dream ;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream:
Oh, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream.

THE WAKENING.

MRS. HEMANS.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must, ere night, be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds from the city borne;
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods,
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto light bath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
One, though to sever'd and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?

THE CHILD'S DREAM.

BARTON.

What know we of the glorious sights which bless an

infant's dream? Or, could we guess them, what more meet to be a

poet's theme? The hope than e'en a glimpse of such my numbers

might make known, To fond imagination brings a day-dream of its own.

Tis of a child of five years old, upon whose peaceful

sleep Fair visions of another world with silent footsteps creep; Soft as the dew on summer flowers, or moonlight on

the sea, The influence of that blissful dream to Fancy seems

to be.

The cheek, upon the pillow press’d, wears joy's de

lightful tinge, The eyes are closed, yet joy's bright tear steals thro'

the eyelids' fringe. The lips are voiceless, yet they wear the sweetest

smile of bliss A smile so sweet, it well might chide the fondest

mother's kiss.

Thou happy sleeper, might I tell where now thy spirit

roams, The lot it shares-how poor would seem the joys of

proudest domes ! Fame, wealth, and grandeur, never get a pleasure

could impart So pangless and so pure as those which now possess

thy heart.

For thou art in the land of thought, and far hast left

behind The fading happiness of earth, for raptures more refined; Thine seemis a foretaste of the boon appointed for the

bless'd, “Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the

weary are at rest."

STANZAS.

BYRON.

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth ;
And form so soft and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not;
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell ;
'Tis nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now,
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow;

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