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I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too:
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

H. K. White.


Child of the dust, I heard thee mourn,
'Will God forsake, and not return?
Unhealed my wounds, my woes unknown,
Down to the grave I sink alone.'

But art thou thus indeed alone,
Quite unbefriended and unknown?
And hast thou then His love forgot,
Who formed thy frame and fixed thy lot?

Who laid his Son within the grave,
Thy soul from endless death to save,
And gave his Spirit to console,
And make thy wounded bosom whole?


Is not his voice ia evening's gale?
Beams not in him the stars so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade or die,
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To thine Almighty friend are known,
And say'st thou, thou art all alone?





He's gone! the glorious spirit's fled!

The minstrel's strains are hushed and o'er,
And lowly lies the mighty dead

Upon a far and foreign shore.
Still as the harp o'er Babel's streams,

For ever hangs his tuneful lyre,
And he, with all his glowing dreams,

Quenched like a meteor's fire!

So sleeps the great, the young, the brave.

Of all beneath the circling sun.
A muffled shroud—a dungeon grave—

To him, the bard, remain alone.
So, genius, ends thy blazing reign—

So mute the music of the tongue, Which poured but late the loftiest strain

That ever mortal sung.

Yet musing on bis early doom,

Methinks for him no tears should be,
Above whose bed of rest shall bloom

The laurels of eternity.
But, oh! while glory gilds his sleep,

How shall the heart its loss forget?
His very fame must bid it weep,

His praises wake regret.

His memory in the tears of Greece

Shall be embalmed for evermore, And till her tale of troubles cease,

His spirit walk her silent shore. Then even the winds that wake in sighs,

Shall still seem whispering of bis name; And lonely rocks and mountains rise

His monuments of fame!

But where is he ?—ye dead—ye dead,

How secret and how silent all!
No voice comes from the narrow bed—

No answer from the dreary pall.
It hath no tale of future trust,

No morning beam, no wakening eye,
It only speaks of ' dust to dust,'

Of trees that fall—to lie.

'My bark is yet upon the shore,'

And thine is launched upon the sea,
Which eye of man may not explore,

Of fathomless eternity!
Perchance, in some far future land,

We yet may meet—we yet may dwell;
If not, from off this mortal strand,

Immortal, fare thee well!

John Malcolm, Esq

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0 for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,.

Of unsuccessful, or successful war,

Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,

My soul is sick, with every day's report

Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,

It does not feel for man; the natural bond

Of brotherhood is severed as the flax

That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin

Not coloured like his own; and having power

To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause

Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.

Lands intersected by a narrow frith

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed

Make enemies of nations, who had else

Like kindred drops been mingled into one.

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored,

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat

With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart,

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.

Then what is man? and what man, seeing this,

And having human feelings, does not blush,

And hang his head, to think himself a man?

I would not have a slave to till my ground,

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