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'Warrior, rest! our star is vanished

That to victory led the way;
And from our lone hearth is banished

All that cheered Life's weary day!
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow

That no more she hears thy tread— That the night which knows no morrow

Darkly veils thy laurelled head!

Warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow

For thy last, long earthly sleep ;— Oh! beneath yon verdant willow

Storms unheard will o'er the sweep! There, 'tis done!—thy couch awaits thee !—

Softly down thy head we lay; Here repose, till God translates thee

From the dust to endless day!



I'll think of thee when mora is breaking,

Richly o'er the sleeping sea; When my thoughts, from dreams awaking,

Stir the depths of memory.

When deeds of other days are rushing O'er my mental vision free;

And feeling's waters forth are gushing, Then, my love, I'll think of thee.

When the weary sun, retiring,

Seeks in peace his evening rest, And his latest beams expiring,

Fade upon the glorious west; When the twilight dews are shedding

Balmy tears on flower and tree, And grief upon my heart is spreading,

Then, my love, I'll think of thee.

When the star of eve is sinking

Down the blue and brilliant sky, When the myriad orbs are blinking,

Weary of their watch on high; When the brimming fount of feeling,

Sorrow-smitten, gushes free; All its hidden depths revealing,

Then, my love, I'll think of thee.



The streams !—how pure, how beautiful!

How holy do they seem,
When sombre twilight's shadow cool

Subdues their golden gleam,
Where, in the willow-curtained pool,

The wave-tired waters dream!

Where by the alder-circled cove

And round the reedy isle,
The peering wild-fowl move

In many a shadowy file,
And swallows dimple as they rove

The silent lapse the while.

River! where once in thoughtless mood

I cast the whistling line,
Above thy liquid solitude

No more my paddles shine;
My oar is in the world's fierce flood,

More dangerous than thine.

But though life's flowers their leaves unclose

Beneath its vernal beams,
Yet memory from its whelming snows

A blossom oft redeems,

And wafts the scent of spring's first rose Athwart our winter dreams:

And thus, although youth's locks of gold

Are turning silver-gray,
Visions of boyhood's pastime bold

Around me seem to play,
And, by the streams I loved of old,

My soul makes holiday.



Take, oh take the gift I bring!
Not the blushing rose of spring,
Not a gem from India's cave,
Not the coral of the wave,

Not a wreath to deck thy brow,
Not a ring to bind thy vow-
Brighter is the gift I bring,
Friendship's purest offering.

Take the Book! oh may it be
Treasured long and dear by thee.
Wealth may buy thee richer toys,
Love may weave thee brighter joys,

Hope may sing a sweeter lay,
Pleasure shed a softer ray;
But not wealth nor love may twine,
Wreath so pure, as this of mine;

Hope nor pleasure spread a hue
Half so lasting, half so true—
Keep, oh keep the gift I bring,
It is friendship's offering!



I've loved before now—like the wandering bee,
I have sipped from each fiow'ret all thoughtless and free
I've loved, did I say? No! In idle romance,
Like the fool I have basked in the loveliest glance.

I've loved before now, for an hour or a day,
But my love, like the zephyr, soon flitted away.
I've loved, did I say 1 No! 'Twas fancy alone;
If I paused but to think, the illusion had flown.

I've loved before now—'twas a bright and brief dream.
That as swiftly evanished as stars on the stream.
I've loved, did I say? No! My heart I beguile,
For I ne'er loved, dear maiden, till sunned in thy smile

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