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Oft too on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
In sighs to pour his softened soul,
The midnight mourner strayed.

His cheek, where health with beauty glowed,
A deadly pale o'ercast;

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And wearied Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow shed.

""Tis past!" he cried" but if

"Sweet mercy yet can move,

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"Let these dim eyes once more behold
"What they must ever love."

She came; his cold hand softly touched,
And bathed with many a tear;
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care

(A cruel sister she)

Forbade what Emma came to say;

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'My Edwin! live for me."

Now homeward as she hopeless went
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

Alone, appalled, thus had she passed
The visionary vale—

When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear,
Sad-sounding in the gale.

Just then she reached, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-

"He's gone," she cried; " and I shall see
"That angel face no more!

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart
"Beat high against my side-"
From her white arm down sunk her head;
She shivering sighed, and died.

VOYAGE OF THE FIRST MISSIONARIES TO
GREENLAND.

THE moon is watching in the sky; the stars
Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars;
Ocean, outstretched with infinite expanse,
Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance;

The tide o'er which no troubling spirits breathe,
Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath;
Where, poised as in the centre of a sphere,
A ship above and ship below appear;
A double image, pictured on the deep,
The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep;
Yet, like the host of Heaven, that never rest,
With evanescent motion to the west,

The pageant glides through loneliness and night,
And leaves behind a rippling wake of light.

Hark! through the calm and silence of the scene, Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between, Celestial music swells along the air!

-No!-'tis the evening hymn of praise and prayer

From yonder deck; where, on the stern retired
Three humble voyagers, with looks inspired,
And hearts enkindled with a holier flame
Than ever lit to empire or to fame,

Devoutly stand:-their choral accents rise
On wings of harmony beyond the skies;
And 'midst the songs, that Seraph-Minstrels sing,
Day without night, to their immortal King,
These simple strains,-which erst Bohemian hills
Echoed to pathless woods and desert rills;

Now heard from Shetland's azure bound,—are known
In heaven; and He, who sits upon the throne
In human form, with mediatorial

power,
Remembers Calvary, and hails the hour,
When, by th' Almighty Father's high decree,
The utmost north to Him shall bow the knee,
And, won by love, an untamed rebel-race
Kiss the victorious Sceptre of His grace.
Then to His eye, whose instant glance pervades
Heaven's heights, Earth's circle, Hell's profoundest
shades,

Is there a group more lovely than those three
Night-watching Pilgrims on the lonely sea?
Or to His ear, that gathers in one sound
The voices of adoring worlds around,
Comes there a breath of more delightful praise
Than the faint notes his poor disciples raise,
Ere on the treacherous main they sink to rest,
Secure as leaning on their Master's breast?

They sleep but memory wakes; and dreams array Night in a lively masquerade of day;

The land they seek, the land they leave behind,

Meet on mid-ocean in the plastic mind:

One brings forsaken home and friends so nigh,
That tears in slumber swell th' unconscious eye;
The other opens, with prophetic view,
Perils, which e'en their fathers never knew,
(Though schooled by suffering, long inured to toil,
Outcasts and exiles from their natal soil;)

-Strange scenes, strange men; untold, untried distress;
Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness.
Diseases; death in every hideous form,

On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm;
Wild beasts and wilder men ;-unmoved with fear,
Health, comfort, safety, life, they count not dear,
May they but hope a Saviour's love to show,
And warn one spirit from eternal woe;

Nor will they faint; nor can they strive in vain,
Since thus to live is Christ, to die is gain.

'Tis morn :-the bathing moon her lustre shrouds ;
Wide o'er the East impends an arch of clouds,
That spans the ocean;-while the infant dawn
Peeps through the portal o'er the liquid lawn,
That ruffled by an April gale appears,

Between the gloom and splendour of the spheres,
Dark-purple as the moorland-heath, when rain
Hangs in low vapours o'er the autumnal plain :
Till the full Sun, resurgent from the flood,
Looks on the waves, and turns them into blood;
But quickly kindling, as his beams aspire,
The lambent billows play in forms of fire.

Where is the Vessel ?-Shining through the light,
Like the white sea-fowl's horizontal flight,
Yonder she wings, and skims, and cleaves her way
Through refluent foam and iridescent spray.

CASABIANCA.*

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

* Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explo. sion of the vessel when the flame had reached the powder.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go,
Without his Father's word;
That Father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud:-"Say, Father, say,
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!

"And" but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

'My Father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!

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