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MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES

ART thou indeed for ever gone,
For ever, ever, lost to me?
Must this poor bosom beat alone,
Or beat at all, if not for thee?
Ah! why was love to mortals given,
To lift them to the height of heaven,
Or dash them to the depths of hell?

Yet I do not reproach thee, dear!
Ah! no, the agonies that swell

This panting breast, this frenzied -'s slumb'ring

brain

Might wake my

tear.

Oh! heaven is witness I did love, And heaven does know I love thee still, Does know the fruitless sick'ning thrill,

When reason's judgment vainly strove To blot thee from my memory; But which might never, never be. Oh! I appeal to that blest day When passion's wildest ecstasy Was coldness to the joys I knew, When every sorrow sunk away. Oh! I had never liv'd before, But now those blisses are no more.

And now I cease to live again, I do not blame thee love; ah no! The breast that feels this anguish'd woe Throbs for thy happiness alone. Two years of speechless bliss are gone, I thank thee dearest for the dream. 'Tis night-what faint and distant scream Comes on the wild and fitful blast? It moans for pleasures that are past, It moans for days that are gone by. Oh! lagging hours how slow you fly!

I see a dark and lengthen'd vale, The black view closes with the tomb; But darker is the lowering gloom

That shades the intervening dale. In visioned slumber for awhile I seem again to share thy smile, I seem to hang upon thy tone.

Again you say, "Confide in me, For I am thine, and thine alone,

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Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches,

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG
TO THE GRASS OF A

Thirsting-ay, thirsting for blood;
And demands, like mankind, his brother

GRAVE
I

for food;

Yet more lenient, more gentle OH! take the pure gem to where than they;

southerly breezes,

For hunger, not glory, the prey Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead.

Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,

In which the warm current of love never

Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer's head.

III

Though weak, as the lama, that bounds on the mountains,

And endued not with fast - fleeting footsteps of air,

Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains,

Though a fiercer than tiger is there. Though more dreadful than death, it scatters despair,

Though its shadow eclipses the
day,

And the darkness of deepest

dismay

Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around,

And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

IV

They came to the fountain to draw from its stream,

Then perish'd, and perish'd like me.
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot
I flee;

The most tenderly loved of my
soul

freezes,

As it rises unmingled with selfishness there,

Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care,

Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise,

Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.

II

Or where the stern warrior, his country defending,

Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour,

Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending,

Where patriotism red with his guiltreeking gore

Plants liberty's flag on the slavepeopled shore,

With victory's cry, with the shout of the free,

Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle with thee.

III

Waves too pure, too celestial, for For I found the pure gem, when the mortals to see; They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam,

daybeam returning,

Ineffectual gleams on the snowcovered plain,

When to others the wished-for arrival of

morning

Brings relief to long visions of soulracking pain;

Are slaves to his hated control. He pursues me, he blasts me! 'Tis in vain that I fly: What remains, but to curse him,-to Seeks Heaven to mix with its own curse him and die? kindred there?

But regret is an insult-to grieve is in vain: And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair

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Each arrow of the season's change When thou canst feel such love, thou she felt. shalt be great as they !

Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run,

One only hope it was-once more to see her son.

IV

It was an eve of June, when every star Spoke peace from heaven to those on earth that live.

She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eve

When first her soul began indeed to grieve:

Then he was here; now he is very far. The sweetness of the balmy evening A sorrow o'er her agèd soul did fling,

Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled

tear:

A balm was in the poison of the sting.

This agèd sufferer for many a year Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed

V

And, though his form was wasted by the woe

Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak,

Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek

Of slavery's violence and scorn did speak,

Yet did the agèd woman's bosom glow.

The vital fire seemed reillumed within

VI

Her son, compelled, the country's foes had fought,

Had bled in battle; and the stern control

joy,

A sigh-and turning round, clasped From her maternal bosom tore the

William to her breast!

unhappy boy.

VII

By this sweet unexpected welcoming. Oh, consummation of the fondest hope

That ever soared on fancy's wildest wing!

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TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA

Oh, tenderness that found'st so
sweet a scope !

I

Prince who dost pride thee on thy BROTHERS! between you and me Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar :

mighty sway,

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