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TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies

Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.
But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let Hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart.

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For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he
found

'T was vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me! but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,

His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, O, pray, too, for me!

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Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death, -
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while merey holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste,
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,

Saying, Weare twins in death, proud Sun! Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"T is Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will?

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,

Thou dim, discrowned king of day;
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again:

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

GLENARA.

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

"T is the chief of Glenara laments for his

dear;

And her sire, and the people, are called

to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;

Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned

not aloud:

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

1

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did seem:

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight:
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady;

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my So, though the waves are raging white,

dream!"

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I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, O, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;

His wrath was changed to wailing.

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For, sore dismayed, through storm and | But to that fane, most catholic and

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Ye bright mosaics! that with storied In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly

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Artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids

me treasure

Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope?

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