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Yet once more upon the waters, yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.—Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it leads:
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering on the gale
Still must I on—for I am as a weed!
Hung from a rock, on ocean's foam to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep—the tempest's breath pre-
vail.

Byron.

SPEECH OF AN OLD OAK IN THE PLEA-
SURE GROUND AT .

Stranger, if peace delights your cultured mind
Rest here, beneath my spreading arms reclined.
Bend thy pleased eye on yon illumined vale,
Hear my gay birds, and breathe my fragrant gale.—

Beats thy young heart with finer feelings, warm?

Does beauty strike thee, or does virtue charm?
Or if sweet love attunes thy gentle breast,
Beneath my spreading branches, stranger! rest;

For Virtue, guest celestial, guards the glades,
And youth and beauty stray beneath my shades.

Anon.

ON THE NEW YEAR.

Blest opening of another year!
Thy cheerful sounds dispel the fear
'That presses down my soul:
When launching on an unknown sea,
That skirts a near eternity,
I see the billows roll.

How darkly roll; though snowy crests
Edge the blue waves, their gloomy breasts

Heave heavily along:
And vainly scans my feeble thought,
What the year's changes will have wrought,

If God my life prolong.

How low my joys may ebb; my woe—
How high its rising tide may flow,
I leave to thy command:

This, this shall silence all my fears,
In bliss or grief, in smiles or tears,
My times are in thy hand.

Anon.

ON A TOMB-STONE IN IRELAND.

A little spirit slumbers here,

Who to one heart was very dear,

Oh I he was more than life or light,

Its thought by day—its dream by night.

The chill winds came—the young flower faded

And died !—the grave its sweetness shaded.

Fair boy! thou shouldst have wept for me,

Nor I have had to mourn o'er thee.

Yet not long shall this parting be I

Those roses I have planted round,

To deck thy dear and sacred ground,

When spring gales next those roses wave

They'll blush upon thy mother's grave 1

Anon. THE EVENING STAR.

Pale evening star! pale evening star!
How dear to me thy glimmerings are;
How many a thought of days gone by
They wake, but ah! how many a sigh.

Ti.
Alas! my feelings then, like flowers,
Springing to life in April bowers;
Now like yon heap, in ruin dwell,
The past's sad silent chronicle!

in-
How oft, by Avon's verdant side,
I watched thee in the crystal tide,
With one of open heart and brow—
Eliza—ah I where is she now?

IV.

That youthful cheek was fair and bright, That eye beamed like thine own sweet light,

2

That voice was music, and that heart—
Enough—'twas ours too soon to part!

v.
That face, whose every smile could bless,
Now wears but death's cold fixedness;
Say does her spirit, throned on high,
Look on thee from that upper sky?

VI.

If dim declining years I see,
Still will I think of her—of thee;
And leave the world's unhallowed jar
In thy calm beam, pale evening star!

Anon.

WRITTEN UNDER BODILY AFFLICTION.

Stricken of Thee, O Lord I I mourn,

And count the lagging hours;
Impatient for the glad return

Of health's reviving powers.
The sacred word unopened lies,

Nor yields me sweet employ;

VOL. II. K

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