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Gath'ring up, in sullen haste,
All her gloomy train she flics,
While, with hues more gentle graced,
Laughs the blue and beaming skies...
And the weeping mists are fled,

And the chill and shade are gone,
And cach bird from out his bed,
Singing, hails the gathering sun.
And, though lately sad with tears,
Nature, like a blushing flow'r,
In her bridal dress appears,
Laughing in a summer bow'r---
There, a daisy lifts its brow,
Thither speeds a vagrant breeze,
And a squirrel on yon bough,

Shakes the dew-pearls from the trees;
While, with modest joy ciate,

Two sweet warblers sit above,

With a low and tender prate,

Conning o'er their stores of love...
These have lessons in the lore,
Which the listning soul may find,
If, by all untaught before,

Which may well supply the mind---
Nature, with a kindly sense,
Grateful to the student's sight,

Teaches the intelligence,

And the rapture born of light.

With this lesson taught I rise

Over humbler earth's control--

Guided to my native skies,

Fearless, by the seeing soul.

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

While pleasant visions in the mother's mind,
Fill with sweet cares and ecstacies refin❜d,
And Hope's fair promises, with calm control,
Warm, with the future prospect, all her soul---
While all the thoughts which animate her breast,
The purest dreams of happiness attest---

May that great Providence who rules on high,
Look gently downwards with approving eye...
Nor pause to sanction the sweet hopes that rise,
Within her soul, and fill with tears her eyes.
Still, o'er her babe, as anxiously she bends,
And, with her hope, a doubt of sorrow blends,
Dispel the care, whose dark and deadly mien,
Would dull the vision and deface the scene.

Oh, gentle mother, with thy soul of truth,
Still tend his childhood and inform his youth,
And, till secure from human sin and strife,
Direct in sweet simplicity his life...

Ere the dark blights of future grief arise,
To blight the garden scene and cloud the skies.--
When youth attends with all its golden hues,
Its theme of love, its worship of the Muse,
Its thousand strings of thought, its fleeting rays,
Its love of fleeting power-its thirst of praise---
Through your affections still, by nature taught,
As great in action, and as pure in thought,
Let solid joys, that may not disappear,
And works that fleet not with the fleeting year,
Requite the present toil, all toils above,
And every harvest home bring joy and love.

DITHYRAMBIC.

How pleasantly sweet is the fond recollection
Of youthful attachments, unscathed with alldy,
When the heart, haply freed from each painful reflection,
Reverts back to days of its earliest joy.

When frolic and gay, with the spirit of childhood,
The form roved at once where its memory flew,
By the wandering stream, by the thicket and wild wood,
And every dear scene, that its infancy knew.

Oh, why are we doomed, when the bloom is all banish'd,
Which Hebe in youth threw around the young heart,
When the blush of the flowers forever is vanish'd,
And the odour all gone, to behold them depart!

To linger behind and to see in the distance,
The glorious phantoms, all fleeting, of youth-
To cherish a sad and a single existence,

With nothing to seck and with nothing to soothe,

And fled from my grasp are the joys of my childhood,
And faded the visions that shone at its morn---

I rove midst the bower, I roam in the wild wood,
And seeking their flowrets, I find but the thorn.
Ah, wherefore thus seek---since the pleasures are faded,
Ah, wherefore desire, nor boldly depart---
'Tis but folly to gaze where the prospect is shaded,
But madness to nourish a still breaking heart.

DEAR THINGS.

Dear to the storm troubled seaman at even,
Is the silver lamp in the azure heaven-
Dear to the warrior, strewn with the slain,
Is the field of his triumph, the red battle plain-
Dear to the exile, long destined to roam,

Is the twinkling lamplight that beams from his home→
And dear to the slave by his tyrant of press'd,...

'To sink on his lowly couch to rest.

Dear to all is the morning's light.
Dear the sky-lark's upward flight—
Dear the minstrel's airy spell,
And his sprite-encompass'd cell;

Where, the pleasant wood-nymphs rove,

And the bow'rs have each a love,

With a magic rich and rare,

Making dearest things more dear.

Dear to valour is the strife,

Where the victim pleads for the forfeit life;

Dear to mercy is the tear,

That tells of the plaint, and the granted prayer;

Dear to wild ambition's eye,

Is the battle's fearful pageantry;

More dear the spoils of the foughten field,
Where the gallant die, and the dastards yield.

But brighter far than morning's beam,
And wilder far than the Poet's dream;
And milder than the young moon's ring,
And softer than the breath of spring-
And sweeter than note of the early lark,
And prouder than valour whose deeds are dark,
And dearer than all that others may prove,
Are the thousand charms of the maid I love.

HOPE.

Sweet power, whose high and heavenly art,
Flings gladness o'er the dreaming heart,
And when each pleasure leaves the mind
Still linger'st with thy ray behind,
And shinest fair-a beacon light
To guide us thro' the gloom of night-
How come thy pleasing hues to bless,
And cheer life's weary wilderness!
Can wisdom with its boasted power
Compare with that etherial hour,
When Hope's presaging eagle eye
Pierces thro' dark futurity;-
And all her glorious hues unfurl'd,
Illumes and lightens up the world?

Man wand'ring on a desert clime,
Welcomes thy influence divine,
And hails with rapture from afar,
The lightning of thy brilliant star,
Which whispers in each surge-a sail,
And voices in each sighing gale-

"Glance quick," she cries, "thy straining eye
'O'er yon dark sea;-a barge is nigh,
Which waits the beckoning of thy hand,
To waft thee from this dismal strand,
To that dear clime, where roses shed
Sweet fragrance from their tufted bed.

And friendship's voice in soothing strains
Shall heal thy lonely woes and pains!"
The dreamer hears! a brilliant light
Now bursts upon his dazzled sight!
His native home appears in view
In all its vivid colourings true;
The hawthorn hedge, the ivied oak,
The jas'mine bow'r and pebbly brook;-
The porch with woodbine tendrils bound-
The every spot-each shrub around-
Like magic mirror to his gaze
Reflect the joys of by-gone days.
The dreamer fiies, and in his haste
The wicket-gate is quickly past;~~
The door is gained-all-all is done,
A mother's kiss salutes her son-
He feels a father's fond embrace-
A sister's tears bedew his face,

And love's warm gush the spirit cheered
Where lately grief her throne had reared.

Alas! an envious crash withdrew
The sainted image from his view!
His dream is past-the shadow vain
No longer cheers his burning brain,

TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Time speeds-time speeds, and though I cannot be,
The watcher of thy years, and see them glide,
With a still onwards and unslumbering tide,

To the wide ocean of Eternity,

Yet would I note that day's return, which tells,

Warm in my heart that thought, even now, which swells,

Till you or 1, or both of us are dust.

We met in childhood's happy hours,

When our young hearts were gay,

We lightly trod on Spring's sweet flowers,

Which faded soon away—

Again we meet, when fancy flings,

Her shadowy form around us,

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