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The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed,

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,

Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.



Thou must
Acknowledge that more loving dust
Ne'er wept beneath the skies.

Earth and Heaven.

O WERE my Love a bee, I would not chide his absence from my bowers, His bright wild wanderings 'mid a thousand flowers;

Enough for me, To know my heart the hive where he might bring His treasured honey, fold his weary wing.

Or if a rose were he,
I would not frown upon his gallant play
With dews, and sunbeams, and the zephyrs gay;

Enough for me,
To pluck the coronal when nought caressed,
And shroud its dying beauty in my breast.

Or if a fair star he,
That won all eyes and seemed on all to shine,
I would not blame his beauty or repine ;

Enough for me,
Like a small quiet billow none survey,
To tremble in his light, then melt away.

O sweet Love be
Of the wide world the glory and the dream,
Whate'er may fairest, brightest, goodliest seem.

Enough for me,
To mark and tell thy triumphs, yet divine,
No love so gentle, or so deep as mine.



He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;

He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,

That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there ;

There are who still remember how he bore
Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seemed living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps,-and yet, around the sightless eye

And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays ;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,

There hovers still the light of other days ;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep for ever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,

The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams,
His wakened spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gode ;

The deadly charm departed ; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing ;
The goal is still before bim and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer : shall they take

They, who, with feebler space, still kept their way, When he forgot the contest-shall they take,

Now he renews the race, the victor's bay?

Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may

rust Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die ; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.



Man hath a weary pilgrimage,

As through the world he wends ;
On every stage from youth to age

Still discontent attends ;
With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms,
What then shall sooth his earliest woes,

When novelty hath lost its charms ?

Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concern, Hope lightens as she counts the hours

That hasten his return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,

The child's sad thoughts will roam,
And tears will struggle in bis eye,
While he remembers with a sigh

The comforts of his home.

Youth comes : the toils and cares of life

Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart

Its consolation find ?
Then is not youth, as Fancy tells,

Life's summer prime of joy?
Ahl no; for hopes too long delayed,
And feelings blasted or betrayed,

The fabled bliss destroy ;
And he remembers with a sigh
The careless days of infancy.

Maturer manhood now arrives,

And other thoughts come on;
But with the baseless hopes of youth

Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed, ,

The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering with an envious sigh

The happy dreams of youth.

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