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And there in hallowed vision,
When gloomy thoughts are mine,
Will soar in glowing exstacy—
There shall my joys be stored;
And there my soul reposing
On contemplation's breast,
When earthly scenes are closing,
Shall find a place of rest,
And leave this lowly solitude

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When the awakened soul receives
The first impression fancy gives;
Tempered by soft affection's reign
Sweet are the days of pleasing pain.
But ah! they fly, they fly, fly never to return
And leave the aching heart to wretchedness foriwn.

What magic shall the muse employ
Or how recall departed joy?
Alas! the time returns no more,
Nor hope herself can now restore

Those smiling days, when with fresh roses crowned
She led the fairy hours their gay fantastic round.

She flies with youth, and leaves to age
The future tempest to engage:
The blossoms fall, the leaves are torn,
On the rude blast behold them borne
Far distant, while the withered trunk remains
Covered with hoary frost amid deserted plains.

'Vain insects of a summer day' (The power of nature seems to say) 'Expect not long unclouded hours Soon rushing winds and breaking showers Your pastime ends—and fortune still at strife, Ware in vicissitudes through human life.'

Friendship remains—thro' changing time Remains superior and sublime; Pure and unmixed her joys we share, No selfish passions rankle there— Balm for the wounded heart's corroding woes, Peace for the wounded spirit's final solemn close'

In recollection's pensive hour,

When tender thoughts the past restore;

Then friendship reunites again The scattered traces that remain; Delights the fond remembrance still to save, And pluck the envious thorn from soft affection's grave.

Mrs Hunter.


O thou vast Ocean \ ever-sounding sea!

Thou symbol of a drear immensity!

Thou thing that windest round the solid world

Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled

From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,

Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.

Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep

Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep.

Thou speakest in the east and in the west

At once, and on thy heavily laden breast

Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life

Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.

The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change

Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare

Give answer to the tempest-waken air;

But o'er its wastes, the weekly tenants range


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At will, and wound his bosom as they go.

Ever the same it hath no ebb, no flow;

But in their stated round the seasons come

And pass like visions to their viewless home,

And come again and vanish: the young Spring

Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,

And Winter always winds his sullen horn,

And the wild Autumn with a look forlorn

Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies

Weep, and flowers sicken when the Summer flies.

—Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,

A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,

When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,

A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds

Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven

Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind,

How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,

And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven!

Thou trackless and immeasurable main!
On thee no record ever lived again,
To meet the hand that writ it; line nor lead
Hath ever fathomed thy profoundest deeps,
Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps.
King of his watery limit, who 'tis said
Can move the mighty ocean into storm.—
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element;

And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent.
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark aud winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach—
'Eternity, Eternity, and Power.'

Barry Cornwall.


Why dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty halls.

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay,
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choaked up the rose, which bloomed in the way

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