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I WANDERED by the brook-side,

I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,

The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

THE BROOK-SIDE.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;.
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word;

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not

no, he came not;

The night came on alone:

The little stars sat, one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer nearer,
We did not speak one word;

For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

THE SONG OF THE DYING.

WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink to our comrades' eyes:
Quaff a cup to the dead already,

And hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'Tis cold as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise:
A cup to the dead already;

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,

Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall midst the winecup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink.

THE SONG OF THE DYING.

So! stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis this that the respite buys: One cup to the dead already;

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Time was when we frowned at others;
We thought we were wiser then.
Ha ha! let them think of their mothers
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses, steady!

The thoughtless are here, and the wise:

A cup to the dead already;

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking,
There's many a cheek that's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.
So! stand to your glasses, steady!

'Tis here the revival lies:

A cup to the dead already;

And hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing:
'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!
For a moment the vapor flies:

A cup to the dead already;
Hurrah for the next that dies!

A PETITION TO TIME.

Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall sting no more?
Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies:

A cup to the dead already;

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
Where the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest remain behind!
Stand! stand to your glasses, steady!

'Tis all we have left to prize:

A cup to the dead already;

And hurrah for the next that dies!

CAPTAIN DOWLING, East India Company's Service.

A PETITION TO TIME.

TOUCH us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream

Gently

as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream.

Humble voyagers are we:

Husband, wife, and children three;

(One is lost an angel, fled

To the azure overhead!)

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