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She died, ' as the grass,
Neither he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.
Oft I remember thus, and feel the mystery of the hour;
Yes! sadly welcomed and with tears, is now and long must be The memory of my parting hour, my earliest friend, from thee; For common hopes and common joys I deeply mourn apart ; But the remembrance of that loss-it thunderstrikes the heart !
For oh! how fast and fervently, when life is in its spring,
When seated by the evening fire, or rambling side by side,
And thus with feelings all the same, --with bright and earnest eye, We held communion long and sweet with ocean, earth, and sky; They told the glory of our God,--they bore our thoughts above, And made us purer as we heard their eloquence of love.
And so within the temple walls we stood with childish awe,
- THAT YE THROUGH HIS POVERTY MIGHT BE RICH.'
Low in the dim and sultry west
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
Its hour of feast and joy is nigh.
Still, near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of húmankind ;
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.
Lady! if I for thee would twine
The Ivy wreath, --can feeling trace
The muse might fitly place
Its verdant foliage “never sere,'
Of glossy and of changeless hue ? Ah! yes, there is a cause most dear
To 'Truth and Nature too.
It is not that it long hath been
Combined with thoughts of festal riteThe cup which thou hast drunk, I ween,
Not always sparkles bright; Nor is it, that it hath been twined
Round Victory's brow in days gone bySuch glory has no power to blind
Thy intellectual eye.
Elated by the wine cup's thrall;
Unto the end of all!
The deathless wreath of Ivy place;
Art worthy of its grace.
Unto thy various strains giv’n birth ;
The fading flowers of Earth ;
By thee in song, would spotless be, The Jasmine's, Lily's, Harebell's braid, ·
Should brightly bloom for thee. But thou to more exalted themes
Hast nobly urged the Muse's claim ; And other light before thee beams
Than Fancy's meteor flame ; And from thy Harp's entrancing strings,
Strains have proceeded more sublime, Than e'er were wakened by the things
That appertain to Time!
Yes! Female Minstrel !—thou hast set,
E'en to the Masters of the Lyre, An eloquent example !-yet
How few have caught thy fire!
How few of their most lofty lays
Have to Religion's cause been given, And taught the kindling soul to raise
Its hopes, its thoughts to heaven!
Yet this at least has been thy aim ;
For thou hast •chos'n that better part,' Above the lure of worldly Fame,
To touch and teach the heart; To touch it, by no slight appeal
To feelings in each heart confest,-, To teach, by truths that bear the seal
God hath himself imprest !
And can those flowers, which bloom to fade,
For thee a fitting wreath appear ? No !-Wear thou then the Ivy braid,
Whose leaves are never sere.', It is not gloomy--brightly play
The sunbeams on its glossy green; And softly on it sleeps the ray
Of moonlight, all serene.
It changes not, as seasons flow
In changeful, silent course along; . Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so ;
It outlives Summer's song. Autumn no wan or russet stain
Upon its fadeless glory flings, And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain,
With Tempest on his wings.
Then wear thou this, the Ivy Crown !
And though the bard who twines it, be Unworthy of thy just renown,
Such wreath is wortby thee. For hers it is, who, truly wise,
To Virtue's cause her powers hath given ; Whose page the gates of hell’ defies,
And points to those of heaven!