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The humble offering of a friend,
Who might sincerest wishes send.

May this, like years behind you fled,
Unclouded bliss around you shed;
The harbinger of numerous years,
Illumed by hope, unchill'd by fears;
With health of body, peace of mind,
Friends ever faithful, beauty kind;
The Muse's lyre still ready strung,
To soothe the old, and charm the young;
Diffusing sweetly o'er your heart,
The noblest sweets she can impart,
While you with her delighted stray,
At early morn or gloaming grey;
And may you live to read your name
Emblazon'd on the roll of Fame.

Your sun is still ascending high,

Not yet in his meridian sky;

Long may he shine in splendour bright,
With steady, cloudless, pleasing light;
And, as all earthly joys must end,
Still clear and calm may he descend;
On wings of bliss your moments glide,
Serenely sweet your " Eventide ;"
Enlarging as he sinks to rest,

May not a cloud pass o'er his breast,

But at his setting brightest shine,
Nor sink in low'ring shades like mine.

L

STANZAS TO SILENCE.

WHAT art thou, Silence? who has thee On earth, in air, or heard, or seen? No pen can trace thy pedigree,

Nor pencil sketch thy form and mien.

To seek for thee in heaven were vain, For hymns of praise still echo there; In mansions of unchanging pain

Are heard the groans of dark despair.

Thou wert not at creation's birth;
For morning stars together sang,
The voice of joy was heard on earth,
And Eden's groves in concert rang.

Ages have rolled, and Time has passed, And seen thee still compelled to roam, A wanderer 'midst creation vast,

A fugitive, without a home.

When thou would'st seek the flowery vale,
To chase thee, swains and maidens come;
Thou flee'st, as from the tainted gale,
The city's din, and ceaseless hum.

The song of joy breathed soft around,
The wail of woe that wrings the soul,
Alike are shunned; nor art thou found
Companion o'er the reveller's bowl.

Thou loath'st the garish blaze of day,
Like moping owl that shuns the light;
And wing'st afar thy viewless way,

To court the stillness of the night.

Yet thou wilt fly, if tempests roar,

And mountain oaks groan in the gale;— If murmuring waves but kiss the shore, And listening echo catch the tale.

Though dear to thee the shady grove,
When zephyrs on the primrose die ;
Yet there the whispered tale of love
Disturbs, alarms, and makes thee fly.

In pathless wilds and deserts drear
It still is thy delight to dwell;
Sometimes, with eremite austere

Thou'lt linger, in his lonely cell;

Unstable still thy dwelling there;

Even that is not thy home of rest; For thou wilt vanish at his prayer,—

Start from the sigh that heaves his breast.

Although thou ever fliest afar

The trumpet's clang and rattling drum ; Yet wilt thou seek the field of war,

When victory's blood-stained day is come.

To hover o'er the gory bed

Where valour cold and lifeless lies, Till startled by the plunderer's tread, Or scared by flapping vulture's cries.

Where Tadmor's ruins stand sublime,
And Solitude has fixed her throne,

Or Babylon, before her time,

Swept from the earth, her place unknown,

Thou hauntest still; but these deny
To thee a home, a lasting stay;
The dragon's hiss, and bittern's cry,
Combine to chase thee far away.

There is a spot where thou can'st reign,
In stillness drear, and midnight gloom;
Where thou can'st undisturbed remain,-
The lonely regions of the tomb.

Yet shall a voice that mansion shake; And those in thy embrace who lie Shall on their bed of slumber wake, While thou shalt in oblivion die!

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