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ONE evening as the sun went down,
Gilding the mountains bare and brown,
I wandered on the shore;

And such a blaze o'er ocean spread,
And beauty on the meek earth shed,
I never saw before!

I was not lonely-dwellings fair
Were scattered 'round and shining there ;-
Gay groups were on the green
Of children, wild with reckless glee,
And parents that could child-like be
With them and in that scene.

And, on the sea that looked of gold,
Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold
Glided, and yet seemed still;
While sounds rose in the quiet air,
That mingling made sweet music there,
Surpassing Minstrel's skill!—

The breezy murmur from the shore,—
Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er
Alike by sire and child,—

The whistle shrill,-the broken song,
The far off flute-notes lingering long,—
The lark's strain rich and wild.

I looked, I listened,—and the spell
Of Music and of Beauty fell
So radiant on my heart,
That scarcely durst I really deem
What yet I would not own a dream,
Lest dream-like, it depart.

'Twas sunset in the world around ;→
And, looking inwards, so I found
'Twas sun-set in the soul;

Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there,
But musings sweet and visions fair,
In placid beauty stole.

But moods like these, the human mind,
Though seeking oft, may seldom find,
Or, finding, force to stay ;-

As dews upon the drooping flower,
That having shone their little hour,
Dry up-or fall away.

But though all pleasures take their flight,
Yet some will leave memorials bright
For many an after year;

This sunset, that dull night will shade,-
These visions, which must quickly fade,
Will half-immortal memory braid

For me, when far from here!

Literary Gazette.

M. J. J.




GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day,

To her, whose pity watched, forever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay

A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.


Animula vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in locâ?

O THOU wondrous arch of azure,
Sun, and starry plains immense !
Glories that astound the gazer

By their dread magnificence!—
O thou ocean, whose commotion
Awes the proudest to devotion,
Must I must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die!—

O ye keen and gusty mountains,
On whose tops I braved the sky!
O ye music-pouring fountains,
On whose marge I loved to lie!
O ye posies,-lilies, roses,

All the charms that earth discloses,
Must I must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die !

O ye birds, whose matin chorus
Taught me to rejoice and bless!
And ye beasts, whose voice sonorous
Swelled the hymn of thankfulness;
Learned leisure, and the pleasure,
Of the muse, my dearest treasure,
Must I must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die!

O domestic ties endearing,

Which still chain my soul to earth!
O ye friends, whose converse cheering
Winged the hours with social mirth !
Songs of gladness, chasing sadness,
Wine's delight without its madness,
Must I-must I from ye fly,
Bid ye all adieu-and die!

Yes!-I now fulfil the fiction

Of the swan that sings in death:—
Earth, receive my benediction!
Air, inhale my parting breath!
Hills and valleys, forest alleys,
Prompters of my muse's sallies;
Fields of green, and skies of blue,
Take, oh take my last adieu!

Yet, perhaps, when all is ended,
And the grave dissolves my frame,
The elements from which 'twas blended
May their several parts reclaim;
Waters flowing, breezes blowing,
Earth, and all upon it growing,
Still may have my altered essence
Ever floating in their presence.

While my disembodied spirit
May to fields Elysian soar,
And some lowest seat inherit

Near the mighty bards of yore;
Never, never to dissever,

But to dwell in bliss forever,

Tuning an enthusiast lyre

To that high and laurelled quire,

London Magazine,



I MOURN not those who have already left

Life-the sweet light of life--and life's pure breath :But, oh, I mourn their state, of Hope bereft, Who, living, pine in hourly dread of death,

And dying live-and supplicate the gift

Of added years to deck their wintry wreath Of hoary honours ;—and when years are given, Then pray for more to make their peace with heaven!



"Tis her first grief!-The bird is dead. How many a mournful word was said! How many a tear was o'er it shed!

The anguish of the shock is past,

But Memory's thoughts those eyes o'ercast;
As, like the violet gemmed with dew,
Glitters through tears their lovely blue.

'Tis her first grief!-Motionless there
Is stretched the fondling of her care;
No longer may she hear his voice,
No longer in his sports rejoice;
And scarcely dare she lift her eyes,
To where her lifeless treasure lies.
But yesterday who could foresee
That such a change as this might be,
That she should call and he not hear,-
That bird who knew and loved her dear ;
Who, when her finger touched his cage,
'Gainst it a mimic war would wage;
Who pecked the sweetmeat from her hand,
And on her ringlets took his stand!
As all these recollections rise,
Again does sorrow drown the eyes,
The little bosom swell with sighs:
'Another bird!-No, never, never!
Empty shall be that cage for ever.'

'Tis her first grief!-And it will fade
Or ere the next sun sinks in shade.
Ah! happy age, when smile and tear
Alternate in the eyes appear;
When sleep can every care remove,
And morn's light wake to hope and love.

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