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* Joy, joy, for ever I my task is done— The gates are passed, and heaven is won! Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—

To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!

'Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh !—
My feast is now of the Tooba tree,
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

'Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,—
Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,
To the lota tree, springing by Alias throne,
Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf!
Joy, joy, for ever! my task is done—
The gates are passed, and heaven is won!'

Moore.

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THE BETROTHED.

Behold a meeting scene

Of early love, and then infer its worth.
It was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood;
The com fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly; nature seemed,
In silent contemplation, to adore
Its Maker: now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly thought
Conversing with itself: Vesper looked forth
From out her western hermitage, and smiled;
And up the east unclouded rode the Moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense,
As if she saw some wonder walking there.
Such was the night—so lovely, still, serene;
When by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,
A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer;

Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.
This ancient thorn had been the meeting place
Of love, before his country's voice had called
The ardent youth to fields of honour far
Beyond the wave. And hither now repaired,
Nightly, the i maid, by God's all-seeing eye

Seen only, while she sought this boon alone:

Her lover's safety, and his quick return.
In holy, humble attitude she kneeled;
And to her bosom, fiiir as moon-beam, pressed
One hand, the other lifted up to Heaven;
Her eyes upturned, bright as the star of morn,
As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed,
Wafting away her earnest heart to God.
Her voice scarce uttered; soft as zephyr sighs
On morning lily's cheek ; tho' soft and low—
^'et heard in heaven, heard at the merey-seat.
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely fiice;
It was a tear of faith, and holy fear,
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time,
On yonder willows by the stream of life.
On her the moon looked stedfastly; the stars,
That circle nightly round the eternal throne,
Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting love
Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.
0 had her lover seen her thus alone,

Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him I

Nor did he not: for oft-times Providence,

With unexpected joy the fervent prayer

Of faith surprised :—returned from long delay,

With glory crowned of righteous actions won,

The sacred thorn to memory dear, first sought

The youth, and found it at the happy hour,

Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray.

Wrapt in devotion, pleading with her God,

She saw him not, heard not his foot approach.

All holy images seemed too impure

To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled,

Beseeching for his ward, before the throne

Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought.

But sweeter still the kind remembrance came,

That she was flesh, and blood, formed for himself,

The plighted partner of his future life.

And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered

In woody chambers of the starry night;—

Spirits of love about them ministered,

And God approving, blessed the holy joy.—

Poilak.

TO MY MOTHER.

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head,

Could from our best of duties ever shrink?

Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away,

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink:

Banish the thought!—where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy grief assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.—

H. K. White.

TO A DYING CHRISTIAN.

Parting soul' the flood awaits thee,
And the billows round thee roar;

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