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I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,

Yet even here-I thought of thee.

I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,

All palace-lined, from sea to sea;

And ever on its shores the daughters

Of the delicious East are seen,

Printing the brink with slipper'd feet,

And oh, those snowy folds between,

What eyes of heaven your glances meet!

Peris of light no fairer be—

Yet-in Stamboul-I thought of thee.

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget;

Thy face looks up from every sea,

In every star thine eyes are set, Though roving beneath Orient skies,

Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,

I envy every bird that flies

Into the far and clouded West:

I think of thee-I think of thee!

Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?

END OF PART I.

PART II.

INSCRIBED TO CHARLES OTLEY, ESQ.

OF FLORENCE.

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by,
And the old shutters of the turret swung

Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low;
Yet still it burned, and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself

Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals

With difficult energy, and when the rod

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