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Then might I see thee as thou art,
Receive thee in my inmost heart;

But can it be? She has no part

In all she loved beneath the steadfast pole.

REPLY.

AH! well it is, since she is gone,

She can return no more,

To see the face so dim and wan,
That was so warm before.

Familiar things would all seem strange,
And pleasure past be woe;
A record sad of ceaseless change,

Is all the world below.

The very hills, they are not now
The hills which once they were;
They change as we are changed, or how
Could we the burden bear?

Ye deem the dead are ashy pale,
Cold denizens of gloom-

But what are ye, who live to wail,
And weep upon their tomb?

She pass'd away, like morning dew,
Before the sun was high;

So brief her time, she scarcely knew
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Admired she grew-while mortal doom
Crept on, unfear'd, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
But love to death resign'd her;
Tho' love was kind, why should we fear,
But holy death is kinder?

FRAGMENT.

WHAT is the life of man?

From first to last,

Its only substance, the unbeing past!

The infant smiling in its sleep must dream
Of something past, before the vexing beam.
Of daylight smote the unaccustom'd eye,
Ere the faint mother heard its first faint cry;
Lull'd in its rocking nest, it seeks in vain
For what has been, and ne'er can be again.

The child, through every maze of wakening lore,
Hunts the huge shadow of what was before,
Sees his old toys in misty phantoms glide,
"Twixt hope and dim oblivion magnified;
As oft on misty hills huge spectres run,
And stalk gigantic from the setting sun-
Still urging onward to the world unseen,

Yet wishing, hoping nought, but what has been.

But what has been ? But how, and when, and where? Was there a time, when, wandering in the air, The living spark existed, yet unnamed, Unfixt, unqualitied, unlaw'd, unclaim'd, A drop of being, in the infinite sea, Whose only duty, essence, was to be? Or must we seek it, where all things we find, . In the sole purpose of creative mind? Or did it serve, in form of stone or plant, Or weaving worm, or the wise politic ant, Its weary bondage-ere the moment came, When the weak spark should mount into a flame?

ΤΟ

I LOVE thee-none may know how well,
And yet I would not have thee love me;
To thy good heart 'twere very hell,
Dearly to love, and not approve me.

Whate'er thou lov'st it is not thine,

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But 'tis thyself then sad it were, love,
If thou, for every sin of mine,

Should weep, repent,-mayhap, despair-love.

Then love me not-thou canst not scorn;

And mind-I do not bid thee hate me;

And if I die, oh, do not mourn,
But if I live, do new create me.

EXPERTUS LOQUITUR.

"'TIS SAD EXPERIENCE SPEAKS."

THERE never was a blessing, or a curse,
So sweet, so cruel, as a knack of verse.
When the smug stripling finds the way to rhyme,
Glad as the wild bee 'mid a bed of thyme;

With dulcet murmuring, all a summer's day,
With many a scrap of many a purposed lay-
Fitful, yet gentle, as a summer wind,

Pleased with himself, and pleased with all mankind,
Sure of the praise which partial friends bestow,
He breathes in bliss, if bliss may be below.

Pass some few years-and see where all will end.
The hireling scribe, estranged from every friend,
Or if one friend remain, 'tis one so brave,
He will not quit the wreck he cannot save;
The good man's pity, and the proud man's scorn,
The Muse's vagabond, he roams forlorn.
Thought, wit, invention, tenderness have left him,
All wealth of mind, save empty rhyme, bereft him,
Yet write he must, for still he needs must eat-
Retail fantastic sorrow by the sheet ;-

Sing in his garret of the flowery grove,

And pinch'd with hunger, wail the woes of love.
Oh may all Christian souls, while yet 'tis time,
Renounce the World, the Flesh, the Devil, and Rhyme.

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