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If I had thought thou could'st have died,

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when hy thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou should'st smile no more!


And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain!
But when I speak—thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead! i


If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold, and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave—

And I am now alone I

. . .: IV.

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

Rev. C. Wolfe.


The Minstrel boy to the war is. gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
'Land of song,' said the warrior bard,
'Though all the world forsake thee,
One sword at least thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.'—

The minstrel fell—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp, he loved, ne'er spake again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said—' No chain shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery;

Thy songs *were made for the pure and free,

They never shall sound in slavery!'



They who have marked the blooming rose
From some loved features daily fade,

And spite of tenderness disclose,
Each morning, but a fainter shade,

Until the anxious eye might view,

Alone the lily's sickly hue, .

Yes! they have felt as we for you.

But oh! how few the joys have known,
To see again the roses blown:
To find their very hopes out-done.
And all their fears relieved or gone.
Such joy is ours ; for gracious heaven
Returning health to thee has given;
And we, thy friends, will gladly give
The praise to Him who bade thee live.

How fruitless all thy parents' care!

How vain to breathe the ocean air!

If He who rules the earth and seas,

Nor blessed the care, nor winged the breeze.

'Tis the Physician, heavenly, true,

Whose balms have done so much for you.

Sweet friend! oh ! may thy lengthened days

Be all devoted to His praise:

May every hour in mercy given

But fit thee more for Him and heaven!


Friendship! I thought thee once a pleasing thing;
When childhood flattered me with easy dreams.
Too rash I trusted to thy waxen wing,

Against affliction's melting beams.
I knew not, till I felt, how light! how vain!
Were all thy boasted mighty powers:
Fair promiser in happy hours,
But flying from our pain.

When youth allured me, from my mother's knee,
To sports, companions, and unthinking days;
I thought the sun and seasons made for me,

Smoothly we enter life's delusive maze,
By inexperience led, and hope deceived.
I trusted ere my heart inquired,
So soon is what we wish admired!
And what we love believed!

But heavenly care, that did my good intend,
Stripped me of these to give me better joys;

Removing worldly prospects—substance—friendAnd gave itself in change for earthly toys.

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