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“ In the hours of my slumber proud visions come o'er me,

And life for a moment seems brightly to smile, The pathway of glory and fame is before me, The noble caress, and the lovely adore me,

And every sad thought from my bosom beguile.

“But, ah! from those dreams soon and sadly I waken,

To find all around me thrice gloomy and drear; To know that thou, too, from my arms hast been taken, Thou blest and revered one, whose friendship unshaken,

The darkest, the saddest, of moments would cheer.

« Oh death! thou stern soe to the lex sind blooming,

Thou te or to those who are bl_ .g and blest ! How freely this bosom would welcome thy coming, How gladly, thy garment of darkness assuming,

Sink down into slumber and peace on thy breast !"

STANZAS.

'Tis sweet to think of days gone by,

When life and all its charms were new,
And seem'd as bright to childhood's eye,

As morning's liquid gems of dew.

To think of joys that long have fled,

of youthful hopes indulged in vain, Of feelings waken’d from the dead,

And sorrows that have ceased to pain.

To let the thoughts excursive rove,

In many a wild prophetic dream,
To pour the prayer for those we love

And feel that we are dear to them

To think of friends we fondly loved,

Who calmly now in darkness sleep,
By all our joys and griefs unmoved

To think with soften'd breast and weep!

Oh! well such moments can repay,

For lingering hours of darker thought,
When hope has bent ’neath sorrow's sway,

And feeling is with anguish fraught.

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The following lines were suggested by reading a narrative of a Chinese youth, whose mother felt great alarm during the prevalence of a thunderstorm, and whose filial affection always prompted him to be present with his mother on such occasions, and even after her death to visit and remain at her grave, during their continuance.

I COME to thee, my mother! the black sky

Is swollen with its thunder, and the air
Seems palpable with darkness, save when high,

The lurid lightning streams a ruddy glare
Across the heavens, rousing from their lair
The deep-voiced thunders! how the mounting storm

Strides o'er the firmament ! yet I can dare
Its fiercest terrors, mother, that my arm
May wind its shield of love around thy sleeping form.

What uproar! raging winds, and smiting hail,

The lightning's blaze, and deafʼning thunder's crash,
Let loose at once for havoc! I should quail

Before the terrors of the forked flash,
Did not the thought of thee triumphant dash
All selfish fears aside, and bid me fly

To kneel beside thy grave; the rain-drops plash
Heavily round thee from the rifted sky;
Yet I am here, fear not-beside thy couch I lie.

Thou canst not hear me -the storm brings not now,

One terror to thy bosom-yet ’t is sweet
To call to mind the smile, wherewith thy brow

Was wont in by-gone days my step to greet,

When o'er the earth the summer tempest beat,
And the loosed thunder shook the heavens—but when

Was there a look of mine that did not meet
A smile of love from thee? the world of men
A friend, like thou hast been, will never yield again.

Oh! mother, mother, how could love like thine

Pass from the earth away! on other eyes, The glances of maternal love will shine,

And still on other hearts the blessing lies,

That made mine blissful; yet far less they prize
That boon of happiness and in their glee,

Around their spirits gather many ties
Of joy and tenderness—but all to me
That made the earth seem bright, is sepulchred with thee.

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They sometimes strive to lead me to the halls,

Where wine and mirth the fleeting moments wing, But on my clouded spirit sadness falls,

More darkly then, than when the cave-glooms fling

Their shadows round me, and the night-winds sing Through the torn rocks their melancholy dirge,

Or when as now the echoing thunder rings O'er the wide heavens, and the mad gales urge Unto an answering cry, the overmastering surge.

The storms of nature pass, and soon no trace

Is left to mark their ravage—but long years Pass lingeringly onward, nor efface

The deep-cut channel of our burning tears,

Or aching scars, that wasting sorrow sears Upon the breast: lo! even now, a gleam

Of moonlight through the broken clouds appears,
To bless the earth again.

I-fain would dream,
It was a smile of thine, to bless me with its beam.

TO A CROCUS.

AN so ye’ve oped your leaves at last-
I've often pitied ye, when fast
The drivin' snaw has o'er ye past,

Puir bonnie thing,
Ye dared too soon the moody blast,

This damp cauld spring.

Ye've lifted up your gou’den head,
Too soon from off its wintry bed,
When late the faithless sunshine shed,

A saft warm gleam,
Then left ye, ere your leaves could spread,

Beneath its beam.

Sic' is the hapless doom of those
Round whom her chain stern slavery throws,
Wha, born to naught but wrongs and woes,

An' mony a tear,
Find storms and gloom around them close,

In life's young year.

But o'er ye now the brightening sky
Is bending wi' a milder eye,
A safter breeze your buds will dry,

An' fan your bloom;
O'er them oppression's clouds still lie

In murky gloom.

Yet e'en for them, a feeble light
Seems breaking o'er the horizon's night,
Distant, and faint, yet palely bright,

Wi' hope's blest beam, Telling that soon across their sight

'T will broadly gleam.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP. They say this world is fraught with guile They say that lips may wear a smile, And yet the heart be cold the while,

As Zembla's sparkling icicle.

They say that those beloved for years,
Will fly when adverse fate appears,
And meet us ’midst our lonely tears,

With eye averted scornfully.

Believe it not-oh no! oh no!
True hearts there are, that love not so,
But closer twine in grief and woe,

And love ev’n more in misery !

There may be some, perchance, whose eye
Will only smile when hope is high,
And from the couch of sorrow fly,

To meet in sounds of revelry.
Yet think not all are false and fair!
Though hearts of truth, alas! be rare,
Some, some, at least, will surely bear

The test of dark adversity.

A SKETCH.
[Extracted from a manuscript poem.]
Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,
And clustering locks of raven dye-
That o'er his lofty forehead hung,
In thick neglected masses flung,
Contrasted strangely with the cheek

So wan, so sunken, and so pale,-
Save when the hectic's transient streak

Pass'd over it-and told a tale of silent suffering and decay, That wore the springs of life away.

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