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Our trysted hour long since hath rung
From every neighbouring tower;
To hail the twilight hour;
Why tarries she so late?
Is nestled with his mate—
A step is on the yielding grass,
Light as the morning dew;
Rise brighter to the view;
With fleetest, foot to me,
All welcome be to thee!
William Anderson. THE PAINS OF SLEEP.
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to love compose,
In humble trust my eye-lids close
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought expressed I
Only a sense of supplication,
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where,
Eternal strength and wisdom are.
But yester-night I prayed aloud,
In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me,
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom 1 scorned, those only strong! *
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Fantastic passions! maddening brawl I
So two nights passed: the night's dismay
Saddened and stunned the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing seemed to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin:
THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.
Last of a high and noble name,
We may not shed a tear for thee,
As warrior's fall should be.
Awhile thy youthful errors lay,
Were early wept away.
Thy steps are missed by wood and wave,
The torrents weep, the tempests rave
Above thy bed of rest.
The echoes of the chase are o'er,
The hunter comes no more.
No voice is heard amid thy halls,
Except the wild winds fitful sigh,
It cannot glad thine eye.
Thy garden's silent walks along;
Thou canst not hear her song.
Cold is the heart that lovest thee now,
'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe; Alas! what bids the hero's grow,
Must blight the bridal wreath. From blood the warrior's laurel sprung,
Midst blood and tears can only bloom; 'lis but a funeral garland hung
Above his mouldering tomb.