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Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
What though untouched by jealous madness,
The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Absence !—is not the soul torn by it,
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,
Oh, for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
And tyrants crouched before them!
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.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who West to dwell
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,
And hark! the wind god as he flies
Moans hollow in the forest trees, ,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf altar of the dead;
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;
THERE IS A WORLD WE HAVE NOT SEEN.
There is a world we have not seen,
Where mortal footstep hath not been.
There is a region lovelier far
Than sages tell, or poets sing,
And softer than the tints of spring.
It is all holy and serene,
The land of glory and repose,
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,