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Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year? .

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of Aowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet,

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!,

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the Spring.

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THE LOVERS.

Har. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, My father's house is hush'd in sleep; In dreams the lover meets his bride, She sees her lover at her side; The mourner's voice is now supprest, A while the weary are at rest : 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; I only wake, and wake to weep.

The window's drawn, the ladder waits,
I spy no watchman at the gates;
No tread re-echoes through the hall,
No shadow moves along the wall.
I am alone. 'Tis dreary night,
O come, thou partner of my flight!
Shield me from darkness, from alarms;
O take me trembling to thine arms!

The dog howls dismal in the heath,
The raven croaks the dirge of death;
Ah me! disaster's in the sound!
The terrors of the night are round;
A sad mischance my fears forebode,
The demon of the dark 's abroad,
And lures, with apparition dire,
The night-struck man through flood and fire.
The owlet screams ill-boding sounds,
The spirit walks unholy rounds;
The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls;
The shades of hell usurp the poles ;
The moon retires; the heaven departs.
From opening earth a spectre starts :
My spirit dies-Away my fears,
My love, my life, my lord appears !

Hen. I come, I come, my love! my life!
And nature's dearest name, my wife!
Long have I lov'd thee; long have sought ;
And dangers brav'd, and battles fought;
In this embrace our evils end;
From this our better days ascend;
The year of suffering now is o'er,
At last we meet to part no more!

My lovely bride! my consort, come!
The rapid chariot rolls thee home.

Har. I fear to go“ I dare not stay. Look back.---I dare not look that way.

Hen. No evil ever shall betide
My love, while I am at her side.
Lo! thy protector and thy friend,
The arms that fold thee will defend.

· Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms: I tremble while I'm in thy arms !

What will impassion'd lovers do?
What have I done to follow you?
I leave a father torn with fears;
I leave a mother bath'd in tears;
A brother, girding on his sword,
Against my life, against my lord.

Now, without father, mother, friend,
On thee my future days depend;
Wilt thou, for ever true to love,
A father, mother, brother prove?
O Henry!- to thy arms I fall,
My friend ! my husband! and my all!
Alas! what hazards may I run ?
Shouldst thou forsake me-I'm undone.

Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, And let a husband wipe thy tears; For ever join'd our fates combine, And I am yours, and you are mine. The fires the firmament that rend, On this devoted head descend, If e'er in thought from thee I rove, Or love thee less than now I love!

Although our fathers have been foes,
From hatred stronger, love arose;
From adverse briars that threat'ning stood,
And threw a horror o'er the wood,

Two lovely roses met on high,
Transplanted to a better sky;
And, grafted in one stock, they grow,
In union spring, in beauty blow.

Har. My heart believes my love; but still My boding mind presages ill: For luckless ever was our love, Dark as the sky that hung above. While we embraced, we shook with fears, And with our kisses mingled tears; We met with murmurs and with sighs, And parted still with watery eyes.

An unforeseen and fatal hand
Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd;
Intrusion marr'd the tender hour,
A demon started in the bower;
If, like the past, the future run,
And my dark day is but begun,
What clouds may hang above my head?
What tears may I have yet to shed ?

Hen. O do not wound that gentle breast, Nor sink, with fancied ills opprest; For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, And love is virtue in thy heart, That bosom ne'er shall heave again But to the poet's tender strain;

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