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And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds—or like the stream
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plains below,

Breaks into floods that part for ever.

O you that have the charge of love,

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the fields of bliss above

He sits, with flowerets fettered round :— Loose not a tie that round him clings,

Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light,
Like that celestial bird, whose nest

Is found below far eastern skies,— Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,

Lose all their glory when he flies! Some difference of this dangerous kind,— By which, though light, the links that bind

The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in love's summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst.

Moore.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

I saw a pauper once—when I was young—
Borne to his narrow grave. The bearers trod

Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung :.
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod.

On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung:
Methought the prayer that gave him to bis God

Was coldly said.—Then all, passing away,

Left the scarce-coffined wretch to quick decay.

It was an autumn evening;—and the rain

Had stopped awhile—but the loud wind did shriek,

And brought the deluging tempest back again .
The flag-staff on the church.yard tower did creak,

Along the sky there ran a lightning vein ;—
And then the flapping raven came to seek

His home;—his flight was heavy, and his wing
Seemed wearied with a long day's wandering.

Barry Cornwall.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
—Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain.
—sKeep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more !—What wealth untold
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, .'.

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.
—Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again I

Yet more, the depths have more !—Thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, .
Sea weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!

—Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay;

Yet more! the billow and the depths have more—
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest,
—Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave—
Give back the true and brave!:

Give back the lost and lovely !—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long!
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
—But all is not thine own. ,~

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown:
—Yet must thou hear a v.oice—restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee,
Restore the dead, thou sea!

Mrs Hemans.

t

HEAVEN.

0 Heaven!—0 beantifnl and boundless sky!

Upon whose breasts stars and pale planets lie,

Unnumbered and innumerable, ever

Mocking with bright'ning eyes man's vain endeavour I—

Thou radiant wilderness, through which the moon

Moves like a spirit, without voice or tune

Accompanied, or song or choral shout,

Save what the universal spheres send out

For aye,—inaudible, though vast and deep,—

Thou world of worlds, within whose arms the sun

Awakens; and, when his bright task is done,

Like a reposing child, lies down to sleep,

Amongst thy golden bowers I—

O gentle heaven!

Art thou indeed the home,—the happy shore,
Where creatures wearied of this earth are driven,—
Where hate is not,—where envy cannot soar,
And nought save unimaginable love,
And tenderest peace (a white and winged dove,)
And beauty and perennial bloom are seen,
And angels breathing in Elysian air
Divinest music, and young shapes, more fair
Than Houris pacing soft through pathways ever green!—

Barry Cornwall.

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