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Is a jewel worth my journey here ;

| “Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Ah that such a scene must be completed

Tracing silently life's changeful story,
With a tear !

So familiar to my dim old eye,
All the picture now to me how dear!

Points me to seven that are now in glory

There on high!
“Old stone school-house !- it is still the same ; Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

There's the very step I so oft mounted ;
There's the window creaking in its frame, “Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
And the notches that I cut and counted

Guided thither by an angel mother;
For the game.

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Old stone school-house, it is still the same. Sire and sisters, and my little brother,

Gone to God ! “In the cottage yonder I was born ;

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;

| “There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ;

Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah, never
Ah, forlorn !

Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
In the cottage yonder I was born.

Those sweet voices silent now forever!

Peaceful days! “Those two gateway sycamores you see

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,

“There my Mary blest me with her hand And the wagon to pass safely under ;

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ninety-three !

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Those two gateway sycamores you see.

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;

Broken band ! “There's the orchard where we used to climb There my Mary blest me with her hand.

When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

“I have come to see that grave once more, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ;| And the sacred place where we delighted, Past its prime !

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, There's the orchard where we used to climb. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

To the core !
“There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, I have come to see that grave once more.

Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails “Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old ;
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Traps and trails !

Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. In his eye another pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled ! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ;/ “ Angel," said he sadly, “I am old.”

Pond and river still serenely flowing ; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Where the lily of my heart was blowing. 1 Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; . Mary Jane !

Still I marked him sitting there alone, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. All the landscape, like a page, perusing;

Poor, unknown !
“There's the gate on which I used to swing, By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas ! no more the morn shall bring
That dear group around my father's table ;
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, “I am fleeing, - all I loved have fled.

In my days of childhood, in myjoyfulschool-days; Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying ; I have been laughing, I have been carousing, She is dead !

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled.

| All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.



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In the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charméd sleep,

Oft I hear the angel voices

That have thrilled me long ago, — Voices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,

From the fond recollections of former years ;
| And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead, -
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ;
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft;
Companions of early days lost or left,
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my

prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world

was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! And I, a lone exile remembered of none, | My high aims abandoned, my good acts un

done, Aweary of all that is under the sun, With that sadness of heart which no stranger

may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man.

Where are now the flowers we tended ?

Withered, broken, branch and stem; Where are now the hopes we cherished !

Scattered to the winds with them.

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!

Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward

To the clear blue heaven above ;

Smiling on the sun that cheered us,

Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness

Save to give it forth again.

O, 't is sad to lie and reckon

All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side., When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, | With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and


The proud man's frown, and the base man's | Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, fear,

Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink; folly,

A region of drought, where no river glides, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, high,

Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — Appears, to refresh the aching eye ;
0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, But the barren earth and the burning sky,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!

And the blank horizon, round and round,
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, Spread, — void of living sight or sound.
And to bound away with the eagle's speed, And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, - | And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
The only law of the Desert Land !

As I sit apart by the desert stone,

Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, Afar in the desert I love to ride,

“A still small voice" comes through the wild With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Away, away from the dwellings of men, | Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; Saying, - Man is distant, but God is near! By valleys remote where the oribi plays,

THOMAS PRINGLE. Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest

graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild SELECTIONS FROM "PARADISE LOST.” vine ;

EVE'S LAMENT. Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, O UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death! And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will | Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades,

Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,

| Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day Afar in the desert I love to ride,

That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, That never will in other climate grow, O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry My early visitation, and my last Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; At even, which I bred up with tender hand And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ! With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste With what to sight or smell was sweet, from Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,

thee Hieing away to the home of her rest,

How shall I part, and whither wander down Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Into a lower world, to this obscure Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ?


Afar in the desert I love to ride,

THE DEPARTURE FROM PARADISE. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away, in the wilderness vast

ADAM TO MICHAEL. Where the white man's foot hath never passed,

.... GENTLY hast thou told . And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan

Thy message, which might else in telling wound, Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan, — And in performing end us. What besides A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair Which man hath abandoned from famine and Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; fear;

Departure from this happy place, our sweet Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, Recess, and only consolation left, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; | Familiar to our eyes, all places else


Inhospitable appear and desolate,

THE DEPARTURE. Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer

In either hand the hastening angel caught Incessant I could hope to change the will

Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Of Him who all things can, I would not cease

Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To weary him with my assiduous cries.

To the subjected plain ; then disappeared. But prayer against his absolute decree

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld No more avails than breath against the wind,

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth;

| Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate Therefore to his great bidding I submit.

With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. This most afflicts me, that, departing hence,

Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them As from his face I shall be hid, deprived His blesséd countenance, here I could frequent


The world was all before them, where to choose With worship place by place where he vouch

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. safed

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and Presence divine, and to my sons relate,

slow, On this mount he appeared ; under this tree

Through Eden took their solitary way.
Stood visible ; among these pines his voice
I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked :
So many grateful altars I would rear
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone

Of lustre from the brook, in memory

Or monument to ages, and thereon
Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers.

KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any In yonder nether world where shall I seek

demonstration of grief? His bright appearances, or footstep trace ?

GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read For though I fled him angry, yet, recalled

them in my presence;

And now and then an ample tear trilled down To life prolonged and promised race, I now Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts

Her delicate cheek, it seemed she was a queen

Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, Of glory, and far off his steps adore.

Sought to be king o'er her. Henceforth I learn that to obey is best,


0, then it moved her.

GENT. Not to a rage : patience and sorrow strove And love with fear the only God, to walk As in his presence, ever to observe

Who should express her goodliest. You have seen His providence, and on him sole depend,

Sunshine and rain at once ; her smiles and tears Merciful over all his works, with good .

Were like a better way : those happy smilets, Still overcoming evil, and by small

That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know Accomplishing great things, by things deemed

Whatguests were in her eyes; which parted thence,

As pearls from diamonds dropped. - In brief, weak Subverting worldly strong and worldly wise By simply meek; that suffering for truth's sake

| Would be a rarity most beloved, if all Is fortitude to highest victory,

Could so become it.
And to the faithful death the gate of life:
Taught this by his example, whom I now
Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest.


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.... With sorrow and heart's distress
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ;
In me is no delay; with thee to go,
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me
Art all things under heaven, all places thon,
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.
This further consolation,,
I carry hence ; though all by me is lost,
Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed,
By me the promised Seed shall all restore.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,

Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream and early

Hath come again;
I renew in my fond vision

My heart's dear pain,
My hopes and thy derision,

Florence Vane !

The ruin, lone and hoary,

The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told,

That spot, the hues elysian

Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane!

III. The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride,
I've seen yon weary winter sun

Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime ;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;
Thy heart was as a river

Without a main,
Would I had loved, thee never,

Florence Vane.


But fairest, coldest wonder !

Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under;

Alas the day! And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember,

Florence Vane !

O man, while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time! Mispending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway :

Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,
The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep,
May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane
Where thine earthly part is lying,
Florence Vane.




Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported in his right;
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, О ill-matched pair 1
Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest ;
Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, 0, what crowds in every land

Are wretched and forlorn !
Through weary life this lesson learn, —
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills,
• Inwoven with our frame,
More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn !

See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,

So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn. Unmindful though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

WHEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

II. “Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"|

Began the reverend sage;
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasures rage ?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of man!

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