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How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone:
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,–
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still.
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm ;-
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,-
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone.
And waft no other breath than theirs !
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ;
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest !

Blest power of sunshine! genial Day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine, calm and sweet, -
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb !
Ev'n Hinda, though she sat not where
Or whither wound the perilous road,
Yet knew by that awakening air,
Which suddenly around her glow'd,
That they had ris'n from darkness then,
And breath'd the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled,
For now the steepy labyrinth led
Through damp and gloom--mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags, that rouse
The leopard from his hungry sleep,
Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,
And long is heard from steep to steep,
Chasing them down their thundering way!
The jackal's cry—the distant moan
Of the hyæna, fierce and lone ;-
And that eternal saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever dark profound
That rolls beneath the bridge of Death !

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Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,

And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its frame!

But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands,

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,

With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old The happiest there, from their pastime returning,

At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,

She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero ! forget thee

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,

Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept :
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber,

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,

And gather there gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell,-farewell,—until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.



“The day is thine; the night also is thine; Thou hast prepared the light

and the sun, Thou hast set all the borders of the earth ; thou hast made summer and

winter."-Psalm. lxxiv. 16, 17.

Thou art, oh God! the life and light

Of all this wonderous world we see ;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When Day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven
Those hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes

Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!


"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."

PSALM. cxlvii. 3.

Oh! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,

How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too !

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom

Did not Thy wing of love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray ;
As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day!


Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies, Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it

'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has unchain'd it,

To water that Eden where first was its source! Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale,

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow! Oh! then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknownAnd the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in heaven by lips like her own! Weep not for her,-in her spring-time she flew

To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd, And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,

Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.


The bird, let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

When idle warblers roam.

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