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of weeds and foliage. I do not maintain that quick conceptions are not a sign of genius, but that to connect glorious thoughts with words fit to enshrine and represent them, is a difficulty only to be overcome by assiduous toil and study. It is justly remarked by Shenstone, that fine writing is the result of spontaneous thoughts and laboured composition. Burns has acknowledged, that though his ideas were easy and rapid, the necessary correction of his verses was a heavy task. The great Milton well knew the advantage of condensation, and after dictating about forty lines would reduce them to half that number. It was the custom of Virgil “to pour out his verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching exuberances and correcting inaccuracies." A French author happily illustrated the comparative facility of a diffuse style, when he apologized for the length of a letter by stating that he had not time to write a shorter one.

The writers of the present day, both in prose and verse, possess perhaps, taken as a body, more energy of thought and passion, and more of the genuine spirit of inspiration than their predecessors in the time of Queen Anne ; and if they were only half as careful and condensed, their great superiority would be evi. dent. But too many of them are prodigal of their intellectual wealth, and waste their powers.


Now slowly sails the gray mist o'er the plain;

The busy “hum of men' is heard afar,
Blent with the murmurs of the restless main

Whose tremulous bosom glimmers with the star
Meek Evening wears beneath her dusky veil.

And hark! the nightingale's melodious lay!
Borne on the wandering wind o'er hill and dale,

The soft notes rise, and fall, and melt away!



They tell me health's transparent flower glows freshly on thy

cheek, They say that in the festal hall thy looks of rapture speak; They know that boundless love is mine, but do not read my heart, And little dream their friendly words awake an inward smart.


I well might weep to learn that care had blanched thy lovely brow,
And yet thine happier fate calls forth no grateful gladness now;
I judge from this sad jealous breast, and deem if thou wert true,
Thou could'st not feel a moment's mirth, nor wear that rosy hue.


I should not thus forget, dear girl, that early years are bright, That hearts so young and pure as thine, are touched with holy

light, And like the fountain's crystal streams, that through spring mea

dows run, Reflect alone the fairest things that kindle in the sun.


They tell me too, that ʼmid the crowd thou hast a smile for all,
That oft upon the lowliest ear thy kindest accents fall :
And oh! I doubly mourn my fate, and breathe an envious sigh,
To think the stranger hears that voice, and meets that radiant


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And yet 'tis selfish thus to grieve—'tis base to doubt thy truth,
Those looks and tones of tenderness beseem thy gentle youth,
And if thy soul of charms displays a bounteous store,
Thou need’st not, sweet one, love the less, though I must love the



In fancy's trance I kiss thy brow, and clasp thee to my breast,But ah! how soon that dream departs, like sun-light in the west ! And then my path is dark as their’s who wander through the

night When suddenly the fitful winds have quenched a cheering light.


And yet not wholly comfortless is home's deserted cell,
For there thy written words remain of faithful love to tell ;
And these are symbols of the soul that life's fond records save,
E’en when the hand that traced the lines is mouldering in the



And still around my neck is hung, that last dear gift of thine,
So like a fairy talisman-a spell almost divine !
I hold it in my trembling hand I touch thy braided hair-
I do but press the secret spring and see thy features fair !

Ye seem not, sweet ones, formed for human care-
Your dreams are tinged by heaven ;—your glad eyes meet
A charm in every scene; for all things greet
The dawn of life with hues divinely fair !
How brightly yet your laughing features wear
The bloom of early joy! Your bosoms beat
With no bewildering fears, your cup is sweet-
The manna of delight is melting there!
Twin buds of life and love !-my hope and pride!
Fair priceless jewels of a father's heart!
Stars of my home! No saddening shadows hide
Your beauty now.

Your stainless years depart
Like glittering streams that softly murmur by,
Or white-winged birds that pierce the sunny sky!


On! now glad Nature bursts upon mine eye!
The night of care is o'er. Deep rapture thrills
My waking heart; for Life's deforming ills,
That come like shadows when the storm is nigh,
Foreboding strife, at length have floated by
And left my spirit free !—The skylark trills
His matin song; the cloud-resembling hills
In dim cerulean beauty slumbering lie,
And form the throne of Peace; the silver stream
Is sparkling in the sun-its bright waves seem
Instinct with joy; the verdant breast of earth
Teems with delight.—The past is like a dream,
A dull trance broken by the voice of mirth,
Or grey mist scatteerd by the morning beam !




The skies are blue as summer seas—the plains are green and

brightThe groves are fair as Eden's bowers—the streams are liquid lightThe sun-rise bursts upon the scene, like glory on the soul, And richly round the couch of Day the twilight curtains roll.


But oh! though beautiful it be, I yearn to leave the land, -
It glows not with the holier hues that tinge my native strand,
Where shadows of departed dreams still float o'er hill and grove,
And mirrored in the wanderer's heart, immortalize its love!



I gaze upon the stranger's face-I tread on foreign ground,
And almost deem Enchantment's wand hath raised up

around My spirit may not mingle yet with scenes so wild and strange, And keeps in scorn of fleshly bonds its old accustomed range.


In that sweet hour when Fancy's spell inebriates the brain,
And breathing forms to phantoms turn, and lost friends live again,
Oh! what a dear delirious joy unlocks the source of tears
While like unprisoned birds we seek the haunts of happier years.

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