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But he rides for the home he has pined to see
He reached the castle-the gate was thrown
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain!
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears, Which hope and memory shed when they meet,— The grave of his kindred was at his feet.
He stood alone the last of his race,
With the cold, wide world for his dwelling-place;
All but their memory was passed away ;
They pointed him to a barren plain
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain.
Is one, the first in the battle line;
It is not for glory he seeks the field,
For a blasted tree is on his shield;
And, the motto he bears is, I fight for a grave!? He found it that warrior has died with the brave!
Miss L. E. Landon.
I love thee, Solitude! thou art possessed
Told to the night when thou alone wert near.
Where parted runnels leapt beneath its beam,
With sound such as thou lovest, like the hush
Of some sweet lullaby, by music tuned,
I've sought thee, viewless spirit, 'mid the tombs,
And marked the cold moon through some crevice peep
O! how my heart shrunk, when the green light shone Down on the gaunt and grinning skeleton ;
And I saw there the gorged and lazy worm
In rayless sockets coil its hideous form.
Yet, solitude, even then I left thee not:
My heart forgot its terror, thou wert near;
With love, strong-deep, that heart's warm cell was fraught, And, rich in thee, it had no room for fear.
But best I love to roam with thee, when spring
Amid the wild woods, where the streams pass on
Like wayward thoughts, the present joys that shun,
And then the moon, the mother of the earth,
Wandering alone o'er ether's boundless wild,
I lift mine eyes to thee! delight alone Shared with thy votaries profound and holy, Memory, and solitude, and melancholy,
Who all alike adore thee, lovely one. But yet thine hour must come, thine hour must pass Like summer clouds, or breath like beauty's glass. Alas! thou tarriest not at our behest,
Although, of all heaven's lights, we love thee best.
A. B. P.
• No longer weep-no more repine
Yea, if the world have loved thee not,
Though piercing be the wintry winds,
For soon will end the mortal strife,
Turn to the dust with death the blest;