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Your papa may look out for a horse,
And consult ma-I must not pay dear; He will think it no trouble, of course, Remembering for what you send here.
TO HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL.
SWEET angel of my natal hour!
My infant days were given!
While such the will of Heaven!
By thee inspired, the livelong day
Calm slumbers crown'd the night;
"T was thou, whene'er I ranged the mead,
That drew me from the fatal brake,
Ah, why so soon to reason's hand
Can Zephyr hush the surging seas,
When Boreas sweeps the flood? Can the soft virgin's voice restrain The midnight howlings of the plain, When lions roar for food?
So weak is reason to control,
Come then, resume thy guardian power,
To whom the charge was given!
REV. MR. HOYLAND.
TO MY HARP.
Oн, my loved harp! companion dear!
When anxious cares my heart oppress'd,
Each well-remember'd practised strain,
The cheerful dance, the tender song, Recall'd, with pensive, pleasing pain,
Some image loved and cherish'd long.
When joy sat smiling o'er my fate,
And when, by disappointment grieved,
Oh! must I leave thee, must we part,
But ne'er can memory cease to love
Those scenes where I thy charms have felt, Though I no more thy power may prove, Which taught my soften'd heart to melt.
Forced to forego with thee this spot,
Endear'd by many a tender tie, When rosy pleasure bless'd my lot,
And sparkled in my cheated eye;
Yet still thy strings, in fancy's ear,
With soothing melody shall play; Thy silver sounds I oft shall hear, To pensive gloom a silent prey.
MRS. HENRY TIGHE
O BEAUTIFUL the streams
That through our valleys run, Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer's cloudless sun!
The sweetest of them all
Up among the mountains
Hath wither'd in the wind,
Birds cheer our lonely groves
One wild and mournful strain, But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird, She ne'er must sing again!
Bright through the yew-tree's gloom
On the silence of her silvery plume
Round the beauty of that breast, But the startled dove afar is flown! Forsaken is her nest!
In yonder forest wide
A flock of wild deer lies,
The hunter in the night
Hath singled out the doe,
In whose light the mountain flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow!
A thousand stars shine forth
Though a thousand lights be there,— For clouds o'er the evening star are driven, And shorn her golden hair!
What! though the stream be dead,-
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed
What! though our bird of light
No more-with our dove's calm sleep,
True that our beauteous doe
Why should we weep for thee?