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TO M. L. S.

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun-of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope—for life-ah, above all,
For the resurrection of deep buried faith
In truth, in virtue, in humanity-
Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”
At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship,-oh, remember
The truest, the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.


HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand ! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are holy land!

Bell & Bain, Printers, Glasgow.

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