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Thou lingering star, with lessening ray

That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my heart was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the halloweå grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined am'rous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every sprayTill too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakos,

And fondly broods with miser care!

Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast !




O thou dread Power, who reign’st above !

I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love

I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary sire—the mortal stroke,

Long, long be pleased to spare ; To bless his filial little flock,

And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes

With tender hopes and fears, 0, bless her with a mother's joys,

But spare a mother's tears !

Their hope—their stay--their darling youth

In manhood's dawning blush-
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,

Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,

With earnest tears I pray,
Thou know'st the snares on every hand-

Guide Thou their steps alway.

When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,

A family in heaven!



The lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby.
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years—and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine ; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, “ 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled.”

And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy has been ;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing, to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is Human Life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!


TO A BUTTERFLY, Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight; Mingle with her thou lov’st in fields of light; And where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold : There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy! Yet wert thou once a worm-a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and slept ! And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!


MY NATIVE VALE. Dear is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close to my cot she tells her tale,

To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours,

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.


THEY stand between the mountains and the sea;
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck;
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic, and moves on.
Time was, they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of gods! and on their ample steps

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