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Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired,

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

And teach the maid
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies,
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.]

H. K. WHITE.

THE WANDERING BOY.

A SONG.

When the winter wind whistles along the wild

moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tearstands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,
Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful

tale.

But my father and mother were summon’d away,
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;
I fed from their rigour with many a sigh,
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale,
And no one will list to my innocent tale;
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering

Boy.

CANZONET.

MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee,

Cold the rain beats on thy breast :
Why should Horror's voice astound thee?

Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,
And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee,

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: Love has been a felon to thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree, Where thou will sleep most peacefully.

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes,

Gently o'er my Edwy fly!
Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,
All along where the salt waves sigh.

I have cover'd him with rushes,

Water-flags, and branches dry. Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ;

Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,
All along where the salt waves sigh.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken,

Fastly closed is his eye; Paler is his cheek, and chiller Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die.

Thou bid'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak
All along where the salt waves sigh.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death dirge, And our shroud the waters spread ;

The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o’er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG

TO THE NIGHT.

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watchtower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark

Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-

A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass’d here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard ;
I've pass’d here many a lonely year,

A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beams; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song,

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