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They part-hark! from the trembling lip the half-suppress'd farewell,

To fond endearment like the sound of slowly passing bell;

They part-what fervency of prayer is in that bursting sigh!

Father of mercies! hear, and send rich blessings from on high.

Ye guardian spirits of the good, O fly with readiest wing,

Obedient to the sovereign will of your Eternal King;

And watch around them tenderly, lest subtle powers of ill,

With doubts and dark forboding fears increase the woes they feel.

O deeply rooted is the love that Jane for Allan bears!

Or why, throughout the live-long day, that frequent gush of tears?

And why that pallid cheek, where late the roses sweetly bloom'd?

That languid eye, wherein the fire of beauty lies entomb’d?

Ah! seems it not as if her soul could brook no more delay,

But, in its haste to meet its love, would send itself away ?

Cease, gentle spirit! cease thy strife, and soften down thy pain,

O hear the voice of heavenly hope, "You'll surely meet again!"

Years have rolled by-the hour is comethe long expected hour,

That Allan should return to prove affection's changeless power;

But, O! what horrors brood around! What wildness fills the air!

And see the breast of Ocean-sure, the fiends of wrath are there!

Are these propitious signs of joys, in antepast so long?

Or, speak they not of grief and woe, for

mortal frames too strong?

Too true-see! on the wave-lashed shore, amid the tempest's wrath,

In firm embrace they're met again—but, ah! it is-in death!

Forboding ill, with breaking heart, the maiden left her bed,

And came to seek him whom she lov'd

she found him cold and dead!

Exhausted nature could no more-in wild affright she cast

Herself upon the lifeless form, and there she breath'd her last!

Fond, but ill-fated pair!-But are they met in death alone?

Hark! Piety replies, "They're met before Jehovah's throne:

"They're met-in a far happier world, and

on a brighter shore;

"They're met-where all who love their God shall meet-to part NO MORE."

THE CUP OF SORROW.

BY G. R. CARTER.

How many of that fatal cup
In loneliness have quaff'd,
Though mental poison fir'd the brain,
And flow'd from every draught !—
The links that bind affection close,
The love which hallows years,
Were broken by its baneful power-
The cup of blood and tears!

Oh! could it from the heart efface
The moral taint of sin,

Or pity for the mourner's crime
From weeping angels win!-
That cup has been bequeath'd to all,
Since Adam's race began ;

Its chastening sway has long controll'd
The guilty soul of man.

Oh! now it overflows its brim,
And scatters woe around;
Despair awakes in every breeze,

And death in every sound!
But Thou who still'st the rolling floods,
And turn'st the night to day,

Shalt raise the sinner from the dust, And take that cup away.

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