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O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the ums Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

Moore.

THE SAILOR.

The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;

He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,

Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;

This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;

When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave-

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;

And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain forest, waving wide;

Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tribe.

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail;

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

Sogers.

EVENING THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

The good man dies—it grieves us:
Why should the good man die?

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He dies—but, dying, leaves us
A lasting legacy.
And this becomes our comforter;
And sweeter is the thought
Of him who is departed,
Than all that death has left:—
No longer, broken-hearted,
Deem that thou art bereft;
For O I the good man's memory
Is sweeter far than aught.

No sorrows now disturb him,
No disappointment there;
No worldly pride to curb him
In his sublime career:
Heaven's azure arch is o'er him,
Earth's tranquil breast beneath.
The stars are brightly glowing,
The breezes play around,
The flowers are sweetly blowing,
The dew is on the ground,
And emerald mosses cover him—
How beautiful is death!

His life—a summer's even,
Whose sun of light, tho' set

Amidst the clouds of heaven,

Leaves streams of brightness yet;

And thus he sinks victoriously

Into his ocean throne:

Then darkness gathers round him,

Tis but a night:—again

He bursts the chains that bound him,

He rises from the main,

And marches heavenward gloriously

In splendours of his own.

Yon gems so sweetly sparkling
On heaven's cerulean deep,
What time the twilight darkling
Brings nature's hours of sleep,
Are perhaps the bright receptacles
Of disembodied souls:
Of souls that, long desiring
Some more than mortal joy,
Burst in their proud aspiring,
And fix themselves on high; ."

And on this earth look tenderly,
That low beneath them rolls.

Yes! in those orbs of glory
Methinks I see the ray,

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Which wisdom's sages hoary
Have scattered o'er my way,
With brighter wisdom perfected,
All strength—all purity.
In yonder gentle star-light
I see the holy tear,
Glistening in fair, tho' far light,
Which once consoled me here—
Till I was left in wretchedness,
And none to weep with me.

Roll on, fair worlds I and over
Earth's vale your torches blend :—
In each my thoughts discover
Smiles of some cherished friend,
Whose melancholy pilgrimage
Wearies the heart no more:
O yes! I hear their voices,
O yes! their forms I see;
And then my soul rejoices,
And, raptured, seems to be
Their momentary visitant;
But soon the dream is o'er.

I'll build a fane elysian
Among those towers divine, ■

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