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As the fresh wind from prison set free
Sweeps in joy o'er each mountain and dell.

When on the young wings of the morn
The lav'rock ascends from her nest,
My voice fills her orisons, borne
Far away on the firmament's breast;
The poet who loves the lone stream,
With face so impassioned and pale,
Hears faint as the voice of a dream
My sounds in the zephyrim gale.

I am found in the night's starry crown,

Where the angels and seraphims stray,

In the sky-stain, where spirits look down

Thro' the mists of the pale milky way;

And when midnight's sweet drowsiness breathes

O'er the leaves of a love-sickened flower,

I sleep in the cup that it wreathes,

And sip the bright dew in my bower.

...... W.D. SONNET.


ii • ..' «i l. * i. .

Had I the power above this mortal state
To lift my burning soul;—could I arise
As does the mountain-eagle when she flies

Up from the clouded earth, and elevate

Myself to those high regions that create

So many hopes to shake the human heart;—

Could I asunder tear the links of fate
Swift as a winged arrow would I dart

Thro' the bright host of angels to thy throne.

Above it—hush! the star of morning sings,
And swinging worlds sweep past it with the tone

As of a distant whirlwind's rushing wings:
Behold! the glory that around him streams,—
And yet his fate we murmur in our dreams.


What's earthly hope ?—a worthless thing,

For man's illusion given ;—
A fancied form to which we cling

As 'twere a shape of Heaven.

What's earthly hope ?—a glittering light

That shines but to betray ;— That feigns to guide us on aright

But only leads astray.

What's earthly hope ?—a jewelled cup

That holds a poisoned draught;— Yet thoughtless men still snatch it up

And still the drug is quaffed.

I've held thee long, thou worthless thing,

For man's illusion given;— To earthly hope no more I cling,

In nought I trust but Heaven!


Smile through thy tears like the blush moss-rose,

When the warm rains fall around it; Thy fond heart now may seek repose,

From the rankling griefs that wound it. For a parent's loss the eye may fill,

And weep till the heart runs over; But the pang is longer and deeper still,

That wails o'er the grave of a lover.

Smile through thy tears like the pale primrose,

When the zephyrs play around it;
In me let thy trembling heart repose,

I will ward the sorrows that wound it.
Ah! vain were the wish, such love to crave,

As warmed thy maiden bosom;
Ere Henry slept, where the alders wave

O'er the night-shade's drooping blossom.

Thomas Lyle. ON THE DEATH OF

I saw her laid in the silent tomb,
And yet I wept not her early doom,
For I thought of a land of beauty and fight,
Where there is no shadow, or darkness, or night;
And I knelt by her bed, and we prayed to be
Soon united in this bright eternity;
And when I saw her young cheek fade,
And death and pain around her bed,
And her beautiful eyes grow dark and dim,
I saw that she raised her thoughts to Him,
Who could waft her soul from sorrow and pain,
To a land where joy and happiness reign;
And she placed her cold pale hand in mine,
And she smiled and spoke of things divine.
She spoke of a God of peace and of love
Who reigns in a world of beauty above!
A Saviour who had died, that we
That land of loveliness might see;
And she folded her hands upon her breast,
And she prayed that her soul might be at rest:

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