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At aught this scene can threaten or indulge;
Resembles ocean into a tempest wrought
To waft a feather—or to drown a fly.

Young.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been washed (just washed in a shower)

Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful bead.

The cup was quite full, and the leaves were all wet,

And it looked to a fanciful view,
As it wept for the buds, it had left with regret

On the beautiful bush, where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned,

And shaking it rudely—too rudely, alas!
I snapt it—it fell to the ground.

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And such, I exclaimed, is the pityless part,

Some act by the delicate mind;
Regardless of wringing, and breaking a heart,

Already to sorrow inclined.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less

Might have bloomed with its owner a while;

And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be followed perhaps by a smile.

Cowper.

THE PARTING SONG.

I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! tkou'rt from my native dell, Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell! And fare thee well — flow on, my stream! flow on thou

bright and free, I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me. But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving

years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my ,secret tears have known: .' . . -"•;

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone! ■• •

I see thee once again, my home! thou'rt there amidst thy

vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer

shines. i

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the

groves, The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother

loves! The hour the mother loves !—for me beloved it hath not

been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will

come— Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall 1 be then, my

home? ,

Not as the dead !—no, not the dead! we speak of them— we keep

Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep;

We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love, the lay

they sung, We pass with softer steps the place they filled our band

among! But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves

on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go !—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice.—Woods, mountains, home,

farewell!

And farewell, mother ! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak ! though but the wind that wanders

through the sky, And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams

reply, Yes! I will speak! within my breast whate'er hath seemed

to be, * There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed

for thee! Brightly it would have gushed, but thou—my mother!

thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been

thine own.

Mrs Hemans.

THE TEARLESS EYE.

His soul was overcharged with grief,

And yet he could not—could not weep, Or shed one tear—whose kind relief

Might soothe his throbbing heart to sleep. No more his eyes can overflow

As once they could when he was sad, Or shed—'twas ecstacy of woe—

Those tears which make the mourner glad.

Then grief could weep itself away,

And sorrow sob itself to rest;
But not one tear will now allay

The aching of that weary breast.
Be still—be still thou throbbing heart,

And calm that beating pulse of thine!
Oh that one soothing tear would start

To vent the sorrow pent within!

Anon.

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