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They part—hark! from the trembling lip

the half-suppress’d farewell, To fond endearment like the sound of slow

ly 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 sub

tle powers of ill, With doubts and dark forboding fears in

crease the woes they feel.

() 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 come

the long expected hour, That Allan should return to prove affec

tion'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 ante

past 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 denth!

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 controllid

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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