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The curtains of the night are far dispread, And round its throne revolving worlds appear; Now would the soaring soul aspire to read The mysteries of heaven; beset with fear Within our gloomy tabernacle here Hope's fading lamp slow wastes, from day to day; Yet—shall the veil be rent—a future year Summon from out the grave its vanquished prey, When these frail wrecks are swept like ocean-foam away.



It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

The bark that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on;
And what was England's glorious crown

To him that wept a son?
He lived—for life may long be home,

Ere sorrow break its chain ;—
Why comes not death to those who mourn?

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms before his throne,

The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair—

He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;

He heard the minstrel sing
He saw the tourney's victor crowned,

Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep—

He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace

Of vows once fondly poured,
And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,

Were left to heaven's bright rain, i
Fresh hopes were bom for other years—

He never smiled again!


I. Oh! the Lady I admire is so beautiful and bright, And lovely as a fairy-queen within her bower of light, Her large black eyes are glancing like two orbs of purest

fire, And dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.

Ii. The ringlets clustering o'er her brow, are of an auburn

dye, And radiant as the golden light that gilds the summed

sky; Her voice has all the melody of an /Eolian lyre, And dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.

in. The beauty of her modest cheek outshines the rose's hue, Her brow is like the moonlight when 'tis loveliest to view, Her blooming lips my bosom fill with rapturous desire, And dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.


And oh! her smile is sweeter than the sunshine on the sea,

I'd give the world, were it mine, if she would smile on me;

I'll love her till the throb of life shall from my heart expire,

Oh dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.

William Anderson.


She was a thing of morn, with the soft calm

Of summer evening in her pensive air,
Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart like balm,

To soothe away all sorrow save despair;

Her radiant brow scarce wore a trace of care— A sunny lake, where imaged you might trace,

Of hope and memory, all that's bright and fair— Where no rude breath of passion came to chase,

Like winds from summer wave, its heaven from that sweet face.

As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,
Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade,


Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull
Of falling waters when the winds are laid,
So he who gazed upon this heavenly maid,
Imbibed a sweetness never felt before;

Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've strayed,
A brighter hue the lingering wild-flowers wore,

And sweeter was the song the wild bird warbled o'er.

Then came consumption with her languid moods,
Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek

To nurse themselves in shades and solitudes.
She came with hectic glow and wasted cheek,
And still the maiden pined more wan and weak,
Till her declining loveliness each day,

Pallid like the second bow, yet would she speak
The words of hope e'en while she passed away,

Amid the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray.

She died i' the bud of being, in the spring,
The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air,

Mid opening blossoms she was withering;
But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair—
The loved of heaven, ere yet the hand of care
Upon the snowy brow hath set his seal,

Or time's hoar frost come down to blench the hair;

They fade away, and 'scape what others feel,

The pangs that pass not by—the wounds that never heaL


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