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At aught this scene can threaten or indulge;
The rose had been washed (just washed in a shower)
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
And weighed down its beautiful bead.
The cup was quite full, and the leaves were all wet,
And it looked to a fanciful view,
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!
And such, I exclaimed, is the pityless part,
Some act by the delicate mind;
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,
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
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
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,
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
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;
The aching of that weary breast.
And calm that beating pulse of thine!
To vent the sorrow pent within!