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Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;

The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doomed to break.

Absence !—is not the soul torn by it,
From more than light or life or breath?

'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,
The pain, without the peace of death.

Campbell.

TO FREEDOM.

Oh, for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,
When, armed for right, they stood sublime,

And tyrants crouched before them!
When pure yet, ere courts began

With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by man

Were those which virtue gave bim.

Oh, for the kings who flourished then!

Oh, for the pomp that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men,

Were all the ramparts round them! When safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre, Round which love a circle drew,

That treason durst not enter.

Moore.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round thy brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

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Come, funeral flower! who West to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom,
A sweet decaying smell:

Come, press my lips, and lie with me,

Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And not a care shall dare intrude,

To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind god as he flies

Moans hollow in the forest trees, ,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine.
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

H. K. White. ENIGMA.

'Twas whispered in heaven, and muttered in hell,

And echo caught softly the sound as it fell;

In the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,

And the depths of the ocean its presence confest;

It was seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder,

'Twill be found in the spheres when all's driven asunder:

It was given to man with his earliest breath,

It assists at his birth, and attends him in death,

Presides o'er his happiness, honour and health,

Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth;

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound;

And, though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned;

In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,

But is sure to be lost in the prodigal heir;

Without it the soldier and sailor may roam,

But woe to the wretch that expels it from home;

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,

Nor e'er in the whirlpool of passion be drowned;

It softens the heart, and, though deaf be the ear,

It will make it acutely and instantly hear;

But in shades let it rest, like an elegant flower;
Oh! breathe on it softly,—it dies in an hour. .

Byron.

THERE IS A WORLD WE HAVE NOT SEEN.

There is a world we have not seen,
Which time shall never dare destroy;

Where mortal footstep hath not been.
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy.

There is a region lovelier far

Than sages tell, or poets sing,
Brighter than summer beauties are,

And softer than the tints of spring.

It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose,
And there to dim the radiant scene,

The tear of sorrow never flows.

It is not. fanned by summer gale,

'Tis not refreshed by summer showers;

It never needs the moonbeam pale,
For there are known no evening hours.

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