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And all his soul best loved—such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watched the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy-forests fringed the evening sky:

So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues pourtrayed
Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade:
All touched the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!

THE BETTER LAND. I HEAR thee speak of the better land ; Thou callest its children a happy band : Mother; Oh! where is that radiant shore ?Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?"

-“ Not there, not there, my child !" “ Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?”' -“Not there, not there, my child !" “ Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strandIs it there, sweet mother, that better land ?” -“ Not there, not there, my child !"

“ Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
- It is there, it is there, my child !"

THE CRUCIFIXION. IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF CRESCEMBINI, I asked the Heavens ;--" What foe to God hath done

“This unexampled deed ?- The Heavens exclaim, " 'Twas Man; and we in horror snatched the sun

From such a spectacle of guilt and shame.” I asked the Sea ;-the Sea in fury boiled,

And answered with his voice of storms,-“'Twas Man: . My waves in panic at his crime recoiled,

“ Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran.”

I asked the Earth ;—the Earth replied aghast, “ 'Twas Man ;--and such strange pangs my bosom

rent, “ That still I groan and shudder at the past."

-To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless Man, I went, And asked him next :-He turned a scornful eye, Shook bis proud head, and deigned me no reply.

A THOUGHT ON ETERNITY. Ere the foundations of the world were laid, Ere kindling light the Almighty word obeyed, Thou wert; and when the subterraneous flame Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame,

From angry Heaven when the keen lightning flies,
When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies,
Thou still shalt be ; still as thou wert before,
And know no change, when time shall be no more.
O endless thought! divine Eternity!
The immortal soul shares but a part of thee !
For thou wert present when our life began,
When the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah! what is life? with ills encompassed round,
Amidst our hopes, fate strikes the sudden wound:
To-day the statesman of new honour dreams,
To-morrow death destroys his airy schemes.
Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confined ?
Think all that treasure thou must leave behind ;
Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazoned hearse,
And all thy hoards with lavish hand disperse,
Should certain fate the impending blow delay,
Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay;
Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm,
No more thy blood its narrow channels warm.
Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span,
To suffer life beyond the date of man?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim, And life regards but as a fleeting dream : She longs to wake, and wishes to get free, To launch from earth into eternity. For while the boundless theme extends our thought, Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.

Mylo, forbear to call him blest .

That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the West

Meet and conspire to make him great:
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.

Let a broad stream with golden sands

Through all his meadow's roll,
He's but a wretch with all his lands,

That wears a narrow soul,
He swells amidst his wealthy store,

And proudly poising what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays

Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold

His manors and his farms,
And cheats the beam with loads of gold

He hugs between his arms.
So might the plough-boy climb a tree,

When Cresus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see

How long their shadows grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be,

To think that shade their own!
Thus mingled still with wealth and state,

Cræsus himself can never know;
His true dimensions and his weight

Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
grasp the ocean with

my span,
I must be measured by my soul :

The mind's the standard of the man.


SWEET MEMORY! wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours,
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows : Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.

And who can tell the triumphs of the mind
By truth illumined, and by taste refined ?
When age has quenched the eye, and closed the ear,
Still nerved for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise—with searching glance pursue
Some long-loved image vanished from her view ;
Dart through the deep recesses of the past,
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

Hail, MEMORY, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumbered glories shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions fly,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest.

The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,

As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,

And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

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