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No! the bark must be proved when the tempest is howling.

When dangers and mountain-waves close on her press; The friend, when the sky of adversity's scowling,

For the touchstone of friendship's—the hour of distress.

When prosperity's day-star beams clear and unclouded, Then thousands will mingle their shouts round its throne,

But oh! let its light for one moment be shrouded,
And the smiles of the faithless—like shadows are gone.

Then comes the true friend, who to guile is a stranger,
The lone one benignly to sooth and caress,

While his smile' like the beacon-light blazing in danger,
Sheds a beam o'er the gloom of the hour of distress.

0 'tis sweet 'mid the horrors of bleak desolation,
While pleasure and hope seem eternally flown,

When the heart is first lit by the dear consolation,
That a haven of happiness yet may be won.

Grief fades like the night-cloud, bliss mingles with sorrows,
When the first sunny rays through the darkness appear,

And the rainbow of hope beameth bright as it borrows
All its splendour and light from a smile and a tear.

O 'tis they whose life's path has been clouded and cheerless That can feel the full burst of pure transport and bliss, When the trusted and tried friend comes ready and fearless Their woes to relieve in the hour of distress.

Past griefs may yet cease to be thought on, but never

Can time make the feeling of gratitude less; May the blessing of God rest for ever and ever . On him who forsook not in hours of distress!

Goldie.

A FRAGMENT.

O leave the lily on its stem,

O leave the rose upon the spray,

O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids,
And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle bough

This morn around my harp you twined,
Because it fashioned mournfully,

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and woe,

A woeful tale of love I sing; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs,

And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come and hear what cruel wrongs

Befell the dark Ladie.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,

My hope, my joy, my Genevieve, She loves me best whene'er I sing

The songs that made her grieve.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of love,

And feed his sacred flame.

O ever in my waking dreams

I dwell upon that happy hour, When midway on the mount I sat,

Beside the ruined tower.

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The moonshine stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;

And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;

She stood and listened to my harp,
Amid the lingering light.

I played a sad and doleful air,
I sung an old and moving story;

An old rude song, that fitted well
The ruins wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace,

For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight who wore
Upon his shield a burning brand:

And how for ten long years he wooed
The Ladie of the land.

I told her how he pined: and ah,
The deep, the low, the pleading tone,

In which I told another's love,
Interpreted my own!

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;

And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn,

That crazed this bold and lovely knight,

And how he roamed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night:

And how he crossed the woodman's path,
Through briars and swampy mosses beat,

How boughs, rebounding, scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet:

How sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,

And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade>

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