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That few shall be
The tears for me,
When I am laid beneath the tree.

Travellers lament the clouded skies,

The moralist the ruined hall,
And when the unconscious lily dies,

How many mark and mourn its fall!—• But, ah I no dirge for me will ring,

No stone will mark my lonely spot;
I am a suffering, .withering thing,

Just seen, and slighted, and forgot;
And few shall be
The tears for me,

When I am laid beneath the tree.

Yet welcome, hour of parting breath,

Come sure unerring dart—there's room For sorrow in the arms of death,

For disappointment in the tomb: What though the slumbers there be deep,

Though not by kind remembrance blest, To slumber is to cease to weep,

(To sleep forgotten is to rest;

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Oh sound shall be
The rest for me,
When I am laid beneath the tree I

Henry Neele.

TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING CHILD.

Written after witnessing her last moments.

I cannot weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a parent's breast;

But, ah! what sighs or tears can heal

Thy griefs, and wake the slumberer's rest?

What art thou, spirit undefined,

That passest with man's breath away;

That givest him feeling, sense, and mind,
And lea vest him cold, unconscious clay?

A moment gone, I looked and lo!

Sensation throbbed through all her frame;
Those beamless eyes were raised in woe,

That bosom's motion went and came.

The next, a nameless change was wrought,
Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread,

And, in an instant, feeling, thought,
Sensation, motion—all were fled!

Those lips shall never more repeat

The welcome lesson conned with care;

Or breathe at even, in accents sweet,
To heaven the well-remembered prayer!

Those little hands shall ne'er essay.
To ply the mimic task again,

Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play,
A mother's promised gift to gain!

That heart is still—no more to move;

That cheek is wan—no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love,

That speaks a parent's welcome home.

And thou with years and sufferings bowed,
Say, dost thou least this loss deplore?

Ah! though thy wailings are not loud,
I fear thy secret grief is more.

VOL. II. M

Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long;

But thine with life itself shall last; And age will feel each sorrow strong,

When all its morning joys are past.

'Twas thine her infant mind to mould,
And leave the copy all thou art; .

And sure the wide world does not hold
A warmer or a purer heart I

I cannot weep, yet I can feel
The pangs that rend a parent's breast)

But, ah! what sorrowing can unseal

Those eyes, and wake the srahrberer's rest

t

Macdiarmid.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

Written after a Battle.

Oh, Lady! breathe no sigh for those, ,
And let no tear be shed, '' .

Who rest in battle-field their head; "i'

And sleep, amid their country's foes,
The slumbers of the dead.

Thy pearly tears may stream around

Thy loved one's aching pillow, Or weep some darling soul who found

A grave beneath the billow;
Or, like a widowed matron, twine
The cypress and the jessamine,
And strew the lily in its bloom
Round the cold precincts of the tomb,
Where one is laid you fondly pressed
A youthful bridegroom to your breast.
Tho' lovely were the wreath you wove,

As fairy hands could twine,
And heart forlorn ne'er gave to love

A sigh more pure than thine;
Yet, Lady, weave no wreath for those,

And let no tear be shed,

Who rest in battle-field their head, And sleep, amid their country's foes,

The slumbers of the dead. For, oh! the warrior's fate may claim A brighter meed, a higher fame: He in the fields of glory fell, And thundering cannon rung his knell. For him there is a holier sigh In every wind that passes by j

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