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Such, innocent of heart! wert thou,
Sweet Catherine, such thy early doom,

And so thy weeping parents bow
In sad bereavement o'er thy tomb.

Still ring thy accents on the ear,

ftill beams thy smile upon the eye: And retrospection's bitter tear

Flows from the font of memory.

Yet why should floods of sorrow flow
That thou, sweet little one, wert given

To win the affections here below,

And bear them with thee back to heaven! i

Eeligion tells us we shall meet

In regions of eternal day,
And mingle in communion sweet

When mortal things are past away.

An&n. And still forgotten while they go,

As on the sea-beach wave on wave

Dissolves at once in snow.

Upon the blue and silent sky

The amber clouds one moment lie,

And like a dream are gone!

Though beautiful the moon-beams play

On the lake's bosom bright as they,

And the soul intensely loves their stay,

Soon as the radiance melts away

We scarce believe it shone!

Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell,

And we wish they ne'er may fade—

They cease! and the soul is a silent cell,

Where music never played.

Dream follows dream through the long night-hours.

Each lovelier than the last—

But ere the breath of morning-flowers,

That gorgeous world flies past.

And many a sweet angelic cheek,

Whose smiles of love and kindness speak,

Glides by us on this earth—

While in a day we cannot tell

Where shone the face we loved so well,

In sadness or in mirth.

Professor Wilton.

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Not for them the bliss to trace,
The chisel's animating grace;
Nor on the glowing canvas find,
The poet's soul, the sage's mind.

Not for them, the heart is seen,
Speaking thro' the expressive mien;
Not for them, are pictured there,
Friendship, pity, love sincere.

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Helpless, as they slowly stray,
Childhood points their cheerless way;
Or the wand exploring guides
Faultering steps where fear presides.

Yet for them has genius kind,
Humble pleasures here assigned ;—
Here, with unexpected ray,
Reached the soul that felt no day.—

Lonely blindness here can meet,
Kindred woes and converse sweet;
Torpid once, can learn to smile,
Proudly o'er its useful toil—

He, who deigned for men to die,
Oped on day the darkened eye ;—
Humbly copy—thou canst feel I
Give thine alms—thou canst not heal!



Ah day revered for sixty years!
Once day of joy, but now of tears—
No cannons peal I no bells are rung!
No loyal hymn by thousands sung,

From Thames to Ganges' shore !—
'Tis past, and, like forgotten things,
The birth-day of the best of Kings,

We celebrate no more I

Yet history's page shall mark the morn,
When England's George the Third was born;
And faithful to her sacred trust,
Shall call that monarch good and just,
No frail memorial this of flattering art;—
Time cannot raze the records of the heart^!


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I spring from the gold mottled east
In the face of the new-risen sun,
And I shine in the blaze of the west
When the race of his glory is run;
I sail in the breeze from the sea,
And I breathe in the ocean-weed smell

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