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Of her, of whom these pictured lines Ah! then perchance this dreaming strain, A faint resemblance form;
Of all that e'er I sung, -Fair as the second rainbow shines
A loro memorial may remain, Aloof amid the storm;
When silent lies my tongue ; Of Her, this “ shadow of a shade,"
When shot the meteor of my fame, Like its original must fade,
Lost the vain echo of my name, And She, forgotten when unseen,
This leaf, this fallen leaf, may be Shall be as if she ne'er had been.
The only trace of her and me.”
AN AFTER-THOUGHT. " With One who lived of old, my song When these weak lines thy presence In lowly cadence rose;
greet, To One who is unborn, belong
Reader! if I am blest, The accents of its close:
Again, as spirits may we meet Ages to come, with courteous ear,
In glory and in rest: Some youth my warning voice may If not, -and I have lost my way, hear;
Here part we;-go not Thou astray ; And voices from the dead should be No tomb, no verse my story tell! The warnings of eternity.
Once, and for ever, fare Thee well."
I have just time to point out the “ Little Cloud” as one of the most finished pieces I know; and extract part of a patriotic effusion addressed to Britain :
" I love thee, O my native Isle: Till, rapt on visionary wings, Dear as my mother's earliest sinile ; High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings; Sweet as my father's voice to me
For I, among thy living choir,
I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.
I love thee, when I contemplate
And Grecian temples bow their fame; I love thee,when I mark thy soil These, thine immortal sages wrought Flourish beneath the peasant's toil, Out of the deepest mines of thought! And from its lap of verdure throw
These, on the scaffold, in the field, Treasures which neither Indies know.
Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd ;
These, at the parricidal pyre, I love thee,-when I hear around Thy martyrs sanctified in fire, Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, And, with the generous blood they spilt, Thine engines heaving all their force, Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' Thy waters labouring on their course,
guilt, And arts, and industry, and wealth Canceli'd the curse which vengeance Exulting in the joys of health.
And left a blessing in its stead: I love thee,-when I trace thy tale, --Can words, caň numbers count the To the dim point where records fail;
price Thy deeds of old renown inspire
Paid for this little paradise ? My bosom with our fathers' fire;
Never, oh! never be it lost;
The land is worth the price it cost.
I love thee,when thy sabbath Down history's lengthening, widening
O’er woods and mountains, dales and And hail thee in thy present hour,
lawns, From the meridian arch of power, And streams that sparkle while they run, Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
As if their fountain were the sun: Like sunshine, over land and main. When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair
Each to their chosen house of prayer, I love thee, when I read the lays And all in peace and freedom call Of British bards in elder days,
On Him, who is the Lord of all.
The County Ball.
Busy people, great and small,
This is a night of pleasure! Care,
The Moon hath risen! Still and pale
And many a luckless rhyming wight
But this is foolish! Stars and Moon, You look quite beautiful in June ; But, when a Bard sits down to sing, Your beauty is a dangerous thing; To muse upon your placid beam One wanders sadly from one's theme, And when weak poets go astray, The Stars are more in fault than they. * The Moon is charming ! so, perhaps, Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a Ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place.
I love a Ball! there's such an air Of magic in the lustres' glare, And such a spell of witchery In all I hear, and all I see, That I can read in every dance Some relique sweet of old romance : .. As fancy wills, I laugh and smile, , And talk such nonsense all the while, That when Dame Reason rules again, And morning cools my heated brain, Reality itself doth seem Nought but the pageant of a dream : : In raptures deep I gaze, as now, On smiling lip, and tranquil brow,
** And when weak women go astray,
The Stars are more in fault than they."
While merry voices echo round,
Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
By turns the ever-varying scene
Hoc ego opertum,"
Sir Paul is young in all but years ; And when his courteous face appears, The maiden wall-flowers of the room Admire the freshness of his bloom, Hint that his face has made him vain, And vow" he grows a boy again;" And giddy girls of gay fifteen Mimic his manner and his mien, And when the supple Politician Bestows his bow of recognition, Or forces on th' averted ear The flattery it affects to fear; They look, and laugh behind the fan, And dub Sir Paul “ the young old man.”