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The sterile plain, the desert drear,
Where howls the chilling blast-
The pains and perils that I fear-
Already they have past.

And kindly would they welcome me:
They bid me not despond;
For they a fairer land can see,

And brighter skies beyond.

O then, though fainting and distrest,
I will my way pursue:

There is a home, there is a rest,
There is a heaven in view.

THE FLOWER.

LAWSON..

ON the golden breast of May
There hung a flower;

It bloom'd to fade-it liv'd a day,
And smil'd but for an hour.

"Twas the glory of the morn

That

gave it birth;

Then dropped on the heath forlorn,

To deck the rugged earth.

"Twas the glory of the night

That saw it die ;

Then sicken'd pale, and hid her light

In clouds that flitted by.

Oh the tempest was unkind,

And stern the shower;

And ruthless was the wayward wind,

That wreck'd so sweet a flower.

Known to few, it liv'd unseen

Where wild birds roam; Obscurity its only screen,

The wilderness its home.

Yet the bee, with busy care,
Perch'd on its breast,

Ne'er sought in vain for treasure there,
To store the distant nest,

Long its beauties might have bloom'd, And cheer'd the wild,

And with its fragrance, now consum'd, The fugitive beguil'd.

But the gust that laid it low
To kiss the ground,

Chill'd the fair bud-it ceas'd to grow,
And drop its sweets around.

So when rudeness blew the blast,
The tender mind,
Expos'd on sorrow's dreary waste,
Alive to woe-declin'd.

Ah! I've drawn my drooping friend, Fair virtue's child;

There are who love the heart to rend, And nip the flower that smil'd.

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SONG FROM AFAR.

Translated from a German Poem, by Matthison.

SMITH.

WHEN in the last faint light of ev'ning,,
A smiling form glides softly by,.

A gentle sigh its bosom heaving,

Whilst thou in oaken grove dost lie;.
It is the spirit of thy friend

Which whispers,-" All thy cares shall end."
When in the mild moon's peaceful twilight
Foreboding thoughts and dreams arise,
And the solemn hour of midnight
Paints fairy scenes before thine eyes;:
The poplars give a rustling sound,-
It is my spirit hovers round.

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When, deep in fields of ancient story,. Thou hang'st enraptur'd o'er the page That gives and takes the mead of glory, Feel'st thou a breath that fans thy rage? And does the trembling torch burn pale?My spirit drinks with thine the tale.

Hear'st thou, when silver stars are shining,. A sound as Eol's harp divine,

Now the wild wind full chords combining,. Now softly murm'ring,-Ever thine! Then careless sleep, to guard thy peace,, My watchful spirit ne'er shall cease!

MORAL STANZAS.

TALBOT.

WELCOME the real state of things,
Ideal world adieu,

Where clouds, pil'd up by fancy's hand,
Hang low'ring o'er each view.

Here the

gay sunshine of content
Shall gild each humble scene;
And life steal on, with gentle pace,
Beneath a sky serene.

Hesperian trees amidst my grove
I ask not to behold;
Since ev'n from Ovid's song I know,
That dragons guard the gold.

Nor would I have the Phoenix build
In my poor elms his nest ;

For where shall odorous gums be found
To treat the beauteous guest.

Henceforth no pleasure I desire
In any wild extreme;
Such as should lull the captiv'd mind,
In a bewitching dream.

Friendship I ask, without caprice,

When faults are over-seen; Errors on both sides mix'd with truth, And kind good-will between,

Health that may best its value prove,
By slight returns of pain;

Amusements to enliven life,

Crosses to prove it vain.

Thus would I pass my

hours away,

Extracting good from all;

Till time shall from my sliding feet
Push this uncertain ball,

PEACE AND GLORY.

Written at the commencement of the present War.

MOORE.

WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope that brighten'd
Honor's eye and pity's breast?

Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior-men?
Is the faithless olive faded,

Must the bay be pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wander'd through the blessed isle;
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is the hour of dalliance over?.
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Bear her from her warlike lover,
To the desart's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph so fair, and guest so bright;
Yet the smile, with which you vanish,
Leaves behind a soothing light!

Soothing light that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguine way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding hope's consoling ray!
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,

While around him myriads perish,

Glory still will sigh for you!

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