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HARK! Heard ye not that deep, appalling sound?
Tremble! for lo! the vexed affrighted ground
Heaves strong in dread convulsion,-streams of fire
Burst from the 'vengeful sky-a voice of ire
Proclaims, 'Ye guilty wait your final doom:
No more the silent refuge of the tomb

Shall screen your crimes, your frailties.' Conscience
Earth needs no other sceptre ;-what remains
Beyond her fated limits, dare not tell ;-

Eternal Justice! Judgment! Heaven! Hell!
Britton's Fonthill Abbey.


LIKE some faint light that shines along the deep,
Joy to the watchful-peace to those who sleep—
Its blaze expanding, as each heart draws near
The home where sparkles every smile that's dear,
'Till from its splendour, welcomed in at last-
Fades all reflection on the gloomy past!
So in its birth glows man's pale beam of life,
The spark of sorrow, then the flame of strife-
Dazzling awhile, until its glare be spent
On thoughts of madness, and of dark intent ;—
Next, a bright beacon on his troubled sea-
Bursting at length into Eternity!




THE landscape hath not lost its look ;
Still rushes on the sparkling river ;--
Nor, hath the gloominess forsook

These granite crags, that frown for ever;
Still hangs, around, the shadowy wood,--
Whose sounds but murmur solitude;
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining,
In mingled echoes steal along;

The setting sun is brightly shining,
And clouds above, and hills below,
Are burning in his golden glow!

It is not meet-it is not fit-

Though fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, Whilst on the very stone I sit,

Where first we met, and last we parted,
That absent from my soul should be
The thought that loves and looks to thee!
Each happy hour that we have proved,
While love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our progress tended,-
Still brings my mind a soft relief;
And bids it love 'the joys of grief.'

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest--but now is broken!

I cannot--Oh! hast thou forgot

Our early loves--this hallowed spot?

I almost think I see thee stand !-

I almost dream I hear thee speaking!

I feel the pressure of thy hand!

Thy living glance in fondness seeking,-Here, all apart--by all unseen-

Thy form upon my arm to lean!

Though beauty bless the landscape still, Though woods surround, and waters lave it, My heart feels not the vivid thrill,

Which long ago thy presence gave it.
Mirth,--music,--friendship, have no tone
Like that, which with thy voice hath flown!
And Memory only now remains

To whisper things that once delighted;
Still still I love to tread these plains,--
To seek this sacred haunt benighted--
And feel a something sadly sweet
In resting on this Mossy SEAT.

Blackwood's Magazine.



Not love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflicts, nor the wrecks of change,
And duty struggling with afflictions strange,
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the muse not loth to range
Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange
Skyward ascending from the twilight dell;
Meek aspirations please her lone endeavour,
And sage content and placid melancholy,
She loves to gaze upon a chrystal river,
Diaphonous, because it travels slowly:
Soft is the music that would please for ever,
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.



THY chalky cliffs are fading from my view,
Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea,
I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu,
Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee,
Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy,

Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight,
Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me
The food of my soul's youthful appetite,--
Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight.

I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold,
Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye;
I never mused on valour, but the old
Memorials of thy haughty chivalry
Filled my expanding soul with ectasy;

And when I thought on wisdom and the crown
The muses give, with exultation high,

I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown.

When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour,
At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm,

Her voice came to me from an English bower,
And English were the smiles that wrought the charm:
And if, when wrapt asleep on Fancy's arm,
Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered,
Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm,
For one by absence and long toil endeared,

The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared.

Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone;
And mayest thou still thy ancient dowry keep,
To be a mark to guide the nations on,

Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep;―

Still mayest thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep,
And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night
That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep
Starting, remotest nations see the light,

And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might.

Strong in thy strength I go, and wheresoe'er
My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget
All that I owe to thee; and O may ne'er
My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt!
And what, if far from thee my star must set,
Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear
The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet,
And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear
Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's deserts drear.

Yet I will not profane a charge like mine,
With melancholy bodings, nor believe,
That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine
Of my own heart, spake only to deceive;

I trust its promise, that I go to weave

A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet
Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave
Of all its fragrance,-that I yet shall greet

Once more the ocean queen, and throw it at her feet.
London Magazine.



WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,-
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,

But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

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