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the blue lone sea, hath one-
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressid,
Above the noble slain ;
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And onemo'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall
, And cheer'd with song the hearthAlas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!
No more I'll listen to your pleasing themes ; No more your flattering scenes with joy renew,
For ah! I've found them all delusive dreams; Yes, mere delusions all—therefore, adieu !
No more shall you this aching heart beguile; No more your fleeting joys will I pursue,
That mock'd my sorrows when they seem'd to smile. And flatter'd tales that never will be true :
Tales only told to aggravate distress, And make me at my fate the more repine ;
By whispering joys I never can possess, And painting scenes that never can be mine.
COME, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds and storms,
And falling leaves, and pastures lost in flowers; A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,
More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours;
Delights with samely and continued joy :
For there is wildness that can never cloy:
In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,
And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms, That's more than dear to melancholy minds.
THE FEAST OF LIFE.
STITIA E. LANDON.)
And music echoes from the walls ;
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The stately Homes of England !
How beautiful they stand,
O’er all the pleasant land !
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream. The
merry Homes of England !
Meet in the ruddy light !
Or childhood's tale is told,
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England !
How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England !
By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep
Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
Long, long, in hut and hall,
To guard each hallow'd wall !
And bright the flowery sod,
Its country and its God.
GO TO THE FIELDS.
J. A. LANGFORD,
IF thou art sorrowful and sad,
And thought no comfort yields ;
And ramble in the fields.
Have friends proved false; doth fortune frown;
And poverty depress ?.
Increase thy wretchedness.
Upon some maiden's love,
Should false and faithless prove;
Like bubbles, burst to air;
To cowardly despair.
Gives joy in storm or calm;
For ev'ry wound, a balm.
No matter what thy mood;
The sorrowful imbued
Or with congenial friends;
Or woe thy bosom rends;