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I KNOW THAT THOU ART FAR AWAY. >
BY JAMES NACK.
I Know that thou art far away,
Yet in my own despite
Inquiring for thy sight.
Can bless no glance of mine,
My eyes are seeking thine.
I hope—how vain the hope, I know—
That some propitious chance
Thy sweetness on my glance.
Whate'er be my despair,
Will love thee every where.
BY MISS ELIZABETH C. CLINCH.
Fill high the cup!—the young and gay
Are met with bounding hearts to-night; And sunny smiles around us play,
And eyes are sparkling bright: Let wit and song the hours beguile,
But yet, amid this festal cheer, Oh, let us pause to think awhile
Of him who is not here.
Fill high the cup!—yet ere its brim
One young and smiling lip has pressed, Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to him
Now far o'er ocean's breast! The cordial wish each lip repeats,
By every heart is echoed here; For none within this circle beats,
To whom he is not dear. ^
A sudden pause in festive glee—
What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth, Hath checked each heart's hilarity,
And given to sadness birth 1 0! read it in the shades that steal
Across each animated brow; The wish none utters, yet all feel,
"Would he were with us now!"
Yet chase away each vain regret,
And let each heart be gay;
Each anxious thought repay.
Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam, The wanderer's yearning heart can know
No resting-place—but home!
Then smile again, and let the song
Pour forth its music sweet and clear— What magic to those notes belong
Which thus chain every ear! Soft eyes are filled with tears—what spell
So suddenly hath called them there? That strain—ah, yes! we know it well;
It is his favourite air.
With every note how forcibly
Return the thoughts of other days!
Are present to our gaze.
His form, is it not gliding there?
That echo on the air?
One wish, with cordial feeling fraught
Breathe we for him ere yet we part, That for each high and generous thought
That animates his heart,
That Power which gives us happiness,
Oh! could affection wish him less t
LOVED, LOST ONE, FARE THEE WELL.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Loved, lost one, fare thee well—too harsh the doom
Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb
When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,
For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone
Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.
But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings
Affection conquers death, and fondly clings
And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,
With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,
Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.
Sunday evening. THE MIDNIGHT BALL.
BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.
She's bid adieu to the midnight ball,
And cast the gems aside, Which glittered in the lighted hall:
Her tears she cannot hide. She weeps not that the dance is o'er,
The music and the song; She weeps not that her steps no more
Are follow'd by the throng:
Her memory seeks one form alone
Within that crowded hall; Her truant thoughts but dwell on one
At that gay midnight ball.
She's bid adieu to him;
All other lights are dim.
She throws the worthless wreath away
That decked her shining hair;
Of flowrets rich and rare.
She heeds not where they fall;
To mark the midnight ball.