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Distance—pursuits—and stir, and strife,
Between us endless barriers throw.

Now spacious lands, and mountains talt,
Between us lie, and billows curled;

And though one school contained us all,
Our tombs are scattered o'er the world.

The pleasures we in childhood felt

Are duller grown—less bold—less bright— And all their fairer portions melt,

Like clouds before the mental sight. The change is not in them; the mind

Is tainted now that then was pure; And such sweet bliss is left behind

As penitence can ne'er procure.

Who hath not felt a nameless thrill,

When friends of earlier days are met? And rising in the mind, at will,

Scenes that we never can forget? Yet the afflicting thought recurs,

That all those golden days are o'er; And sorrow in the bosom stirs,

To think they shall return no more.

Behind us lies a lovely field,

Before us lies a dreary waste; We vainly wish its soil to yield

The sweets we could no longer taste! Thence, sickening at the thought, we turn,

And to our griefs and follies fly: In solitude and silence mourn,

And, pondering, heave the pensive sigh!



Scenes of my youth! ye once were dear,

Though sadly I your charms survey; I once was wont to linger here,

From early dawn to closing day. , Scenes of my youth 1 pale sorrow flings

A shade o'er all your beauties now, And robs the moments of their wings

That scatter pleasure as they flow. While, still to heighten every care, Reflection tells me—Such things were!

'Twas here a tender father strove

To keep my happiness in view; I smiled beneath a mother's love,

That soft compassion ever knew: In them the virtues all combined,

On them I could with faith rely; To them my heart and soul were joined

By mild affection's primal tie; They smile in heaven, exempt from care, Whilst I remember—such things were!

'Twas here, where calm and tranquil rest

O'erpays the peasant for his toil, That first in blessing I was blest

With glowing friendship's open smile. My friend, far distant doomed to roam,

Now braves the fury of the seas; He fled his peaceful happy home,

His little fortune to increase; While bleeds afresh the wound of care, When I remember—such things were!

'Twas here, even in this gloomy grove,
I fondly gazed on Laura's charms,

Who, blushing, owned a mutual love,
And sighed responsive in my arms.

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Though hard the soul-conflicting strife,

Yet fate, the cruel tyrant, bore Far from my sight the charm of life,

The lovely maid whom I adore: 'Twould ease my soul of all my care, Could I forget that-—such things were!

There first I saw the morn appear

Of guiltless pleasure's shining day; I met the dazzling brightness here,

Here marked the soft-declining ray. Behold the skies, whose streaming light

Gave splendour to the parting sun,
Now lost in sorrow's sable night,

And all their mingled glories gone!
Till death, in pity, end my care,
I must remember—such things were!

John Ronnie.


Love is a holy power,
It seems not of this earth,

But in some high and heavenly bower,
To have received its birth;

For pure is every thought,
And all its visions fair,

Its language with devotion fraught—
Like that of saints in prayer.—


Love is a holy power—
It seems not of this earth,

But in some high and heavenly bower,
To have received its birth;

It purifies the heart .

From stains, this world has given,

And leads it forth to dream apart
Of joys like those in heaven.—

J. S. T.


i. In sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn, When the bright sun ascends the orient sky,

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