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Oh! say not that the pictw:ings of youth
Are but the rainbow tints on April's sky!
Must all the dreams that danced before its eye
Fade in the light of stern unpitying truth?
Must noble thoughts and aspirations high,
The kindling ardour of the brave and free;
Must fancy's flash, and young love's purity,
All, like scorched flowers of summer, droop and die?
O! surely some lone relic will be left
To tell of brighter days and hopes gone by;
Surely the heart will never beat bereft
Of every throb of early ecstacy;
Surely—O! surely, round the ruined shrine,
Some unscathed boughs their fresh green sprays will
twine I


I marked the calm on her young fair face,

As grief s rude storm passed o'er it,
But the ebbing smile had left no trace

Of struggles that rushed before it.
Each grief has its day ;—love weep them away,

As the shower on April's blossom
Balms the drooping flower, till the sun's bright ray

Drinks the tear from its virgin bosom.

The flush o'er her fair face went and came,

As I showed her a true-love token;
I whispered hope, and the young god came,

But her virgin heart was broken!
In Wellburn garden, the white lilies bloom,

Eke the rose round the jessamine's twining;
But they withered o'er Wellburn Mary's tomb,

Ere the red winter sun there was shining. •


Beside her babe, who sweetly slept,
A widowed mother sat and wept

O'er years of love gone by;
And as the sobs thick-gathering came,
She murmured her dead husband's name

'Mid that sad lullaby.

Well might that lullaby be sad,
For not one single friend she had

On this cold-hearted earth;
The sea will not give back its prey—
And they were wrapt in foreign clay

Who gave the orphan birth.

Stedfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,

She gazed upon the bosom And fair brow of her sleeping son— 'O merciful heaven! when I am gene

Thine is this earthly blossom!'

While thus she sat—a sunbeam broke
Into the room ;—the babe awoke,

And from his cradle smiled!
Ah me! what kindling smiles met there!
I know not whether was more fair,

The mother or her child!

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,

And to her bosom leapt—
All tears at once were swept away,
And said a face as bright as day,—

'Forgive me! that I wept!'

Sufferings there are from nature sprung,
Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue

May venture to declare;
But this as holy writ is sure,
'The griefs she bids us here endure,
She can herself repair!'

Professor Wilson.


In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind:

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry mora;

While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;—

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.


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