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And hearts that had been long estranged,

And friends that had grown cold, Should meet again like parted streams, And mingle as of old.

Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's
part

In casting bliss around;
Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart,
Should in the world be found.

The heart that had been mourning
O'er vanish'd dreams of love,
Should see them all returning,

Like Noah's faithful dove. And Hope should launch her blessed bark

On Sorrow's darkening sea,
And Misery's children have an ark,
And saved from sinking be.

Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's
part

In casting bliss around;
Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart,
Should in the world be found.

THE ANGELS' WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;

And the tempest was swelling, round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee.

"Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me;

And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch'd o'er thy father.

For I know that the angels are whis pering with thee."

The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,

And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

1797-1839.

[BORN in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortune. Died in 1839. He was, next to Moore, the most successful song writer of our age. Several of them, as She Wore a Wreath of Roses and Oh, no, we Never Mention Him, attained to an extraordinary degree of popularity.]]

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My lips are now forbid to speak that They bid me seek in change of scene

once familiar word:

the charms that others see;

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ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEB
WELL.

SHADES of ev❜ning close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark awhile;
Morn, alas! will no restore us
Yonder dim and distant isle.
Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell;
Darker shadows round us hover,-
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

'Tis the hour when happy faces
Smile around the taper's light;
Who will fill our vacant places?

Who will sing our songs to-night?
Through the mist that floats above us
Faintly sounds the vesper-bell,
Like a voice from those who love us,
Breathing fondly, Fare thee well!

When the waves are round me breaking,

As I pace the deck alone, And my eye is vainly seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon; When on that dear land. I ponder,

Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonderIsle of Beauty, fare thee well!

THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, Sits gazing on her lovely face-ay, lovely even now:

Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care?

Why steals that tear across her cheek?— She sees her first gray hair.

fime from her form hath ta'en away

but little of its grace;

His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face;

Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip,

So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years;

The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears;

The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,

And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.

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THOMAS HOOD.

1799-1845.

[THOMAS HOOD was born in London in May, 1799. His chief poetical works, scattered during his lifetime in various publications, are contained in two volumes entitled respectively Poems, 1846, and Poems of Wit and Humour, 1847. A complete edition of his works appeared in 1862. He died in May, 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, where some years after his death a monument was erected to him by public subscription.]

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch-stitch stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt! "

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Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully;

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses,

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father?

Who was her mother? Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, or a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none !

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver,

But not the dark arch

Or the black flowing river.
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled
Anywhere! anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran;
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,

Dissolute man!
Lave in it- drink of it

Then, if you can.

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurned by contumely
Bold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest;

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

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