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'For never sure was beauty born
To lay in death's deserted shade:

Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,
My banks for love and beauty made.'

Thus pity waked the tender thought,
And by her sweet persuasion led,

To seize the hermit flower I sought,
And bear her from her stony bed.—

I sought—but sudden on my ear
A voice in hollow murmur broke,

And smote my heart with hollow fear—
The genius of the ruin spoke:

'From thee be far the ungentle deed,
The honours of the dead to spoil;

Or take the sole remaining meed,

The flower that crowns their former toil!

'Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, Or fond to grace the barren shade,

'Tis nature tells her to bestow

Her honours on the lonely dead !—

'For this obedient zephyrs bear

Her light seed round yon turrets mold,

And undispersed by tempests there,
They rise in vegetable gold.

'Nor shall thy wonder wake to see,
Such desert scenes destruction crave,

Oft have they been, and oft shall be

Truth's, honour's, valour's, beauty's grave.

'When longs to fall that rifted spire,

As weary the insulting air,
The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,

The lover's sighs are sleeping there.—

'When that too shakes the trembling ground, Borne down by some tempestuous sky,

And many a slumbering cottage round
Startles—how still their hearts will lie..

'Of them who, wrapped in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,

Should many a tender tale be told,
For many a tender thought is due.

'Hast thou not seen some lover pale, When evening brought the pensive hour,

Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,

And stop to pluck the fragrant flower?

'Those flowers he surely means to strew On lost affection's lowly cell,

Tho' there, as fond remembrance grew,
Forgotten from the hand they fell.

'Has not for thee the fragrant thorn
Been taught its first rose to resign,

With vain, though pious fondness borne, To deck thy Nancy's honoured shrine?

'"lis nature pleading in the breast,
Fair memory of her works to find;

And when to fall she yields the rest,
She claims the monumental mind.

'Why else the o'ergrown paths of time
Would thus the lettered sage explore,

With pain these crumbling ruins climb,
And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

'Why seeks he with unwearied toil,
Thro' death's dim walks to urge his way,

Reclaim his long asserted spoil,
And lead oblivion into day?

'"lis nature prompts, by toil or fear
Unmoved, to range thro' death's domain;

The tender parent loves to hear
Her children's story told again.'

Langhorne.

THE TEAR.

On beds of snow the moon-beam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,

When by the damp grave Ellen wept—
Sweet maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed; the wintry air
Congealed it as it flowed away:

All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn it glittered in the ray.

An Angel, wandering from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,

To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem.

Moore.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

i

But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired—
He, too, was struck, and, day by day,
Was withered on the stalk away.
Oh God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood :—
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,

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