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Gone with the dream of things that were,

As if they ne'er had been;
Beyond the wanderings of the morn,

Beyond the portals of the day,
Unto a land whence none return.

Our fathers,—where are they?

The vanished comet long deemed lost,

And absent for a thousand years,
Again, amid the starry host,

From darkness re-appears.
Seas ebb and flow upon the shore;

Moons wax when they have waned away;
But they who go, to come no more,

Our fathers,—where are they?

Thou sun, that light'st the boundless skies,

Where are the earth's departed gone?
Ye stars, to your all-seeing eyes,

Is the great secret known?
Ye breathe not of their place of rest,

But roll in silence on your way,
And the lone echoes of the breast

Still answer,—where are they?

John Malcolm, Esq, MARY.

I saw liiy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away.
Yet still thy features wore the light,

Which fleete not with the breath,
And life ne'er looked more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death !—

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide;
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines,

Within their gentle tide.
So veiled beneath the simplest guise

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charmed all other eyes,

Seemed worthless in thy own.

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er had'st left that sphere;

Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here.

Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see;

To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee—Mary!

Moore.

A SKETCH.

I saw her in the morn of life—the summer of her years,

Ere time had stole a charm away, or dimmed her smile with tears.

The blush of morn was on her cheek—the tender light of even

Came mellowed from her azure eye, whose sphere reflected heaven.

I saw her once again, and still her form was young and fair, But blight was with her beauty blent—its silent trace was

there. Her cheek had lost its glowing tint—her eye its brightest ray, The change was o'er her charms, which says, the flower

must fade away.

Oh then her tender bloom might seem the shadow of the

rose, Or dying gleam of sunset skies, scarce tinging stainless

snows; And clustering round her brow serene, her golden tresses

lay, As sun-bright clouds on summer lakes are hung at close

of day.

Yet—yet once more I saw her face, and then she seemed

to sleep In bright and beautiful repose; but, ah! too still and

deep; Far, far too deep for lovely dreams—for youthful, yes! too

long, O'er which the morn may vainly break, with all its light

and song.

John Malcolm, Esq.

PREPARATION FOR THE BATTLE OF
WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell I

Did ye not hear it ?—No; :t was the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—
But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once mere,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm ! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall,
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because they deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone can quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, felL

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