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The anguish, whose convulsive start

Still mocked and murdered struggling sleep.

Beleaguered Nature's strife to view,

And every pang so keenly share, That pity even from me was due,

Who lay the wretch of wretches there.

In that dark hour, when every tie,

When life itself was all but riven, Thou stood'st a guardian angel by.

That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven.

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Or, with unwearied labour, prest

The nerve where agonies were born,' Soothing my midnights—not of rest

Nor anxious for relief at morn.

And she-one other not less dear,

Oh! can her love forgotten be!
Who, o'er that bed—that living bier-

Shared all thy toils and tears for me.

Like chords in music's holiest mood,

Mingling, but sweeter from controul, Twin forms of mercy! there ye stood,

Breathing one fond, devoted soul !

Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath,

And scarcely aught in heaven above, Can match the purity, the faith,

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The blessing, of a sister's love!

Take, thou, the fond return of mine,

'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give, Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine,

And life itself it must outlive.

A DRINKING SONG.

BY LORD BYRON.

Fill the goblet again, for I never before
Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core !
Let us drink!-Who would not? Since through life’s varied round
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ;
I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved !-Who has not ?-But what tongue will declare,
That pleasure existed whilst passion was there!

In the bright days of youth-when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends !_Who has not ?-But what tongue will avow
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou !

The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange ;
Friendship shifts with the sun-beam ;—thou never can’st change!
Thou grow'st old !-Who does not ?-But on earth what appears,
Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years.

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below;
We are jealous !_Who's not ?_Thou hast no such alloy,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy.

Then the season of Youth and its jollities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ;
There we find_Do we not ?_In the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore is confined to the bowl.

When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left !_Was she not ?-But the goblet we kiss,
And care not for hope who are certain of bliss !

Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own;
We must die !_Who shall not ?-May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven !

EPITAPH, ,

ON JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

If ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,

'Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,

The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles;
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life ;

And stirs its languid surface into smiles ;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But like the dew, with gradual silent power,

Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit that improves,

And brightens every gift by fortune given,
That wander where it will with those it loves,

Makes every place a home, and home a heaven.

All these were his.--Oh! thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,

That ye, like him may live, like him may die.
Morning Chronicle.

A RECOLLECTION.

BY J. MOIR, ESQ.

She was a thing of morn—with the soft calm
Of summer evening in her pensive air ;-
Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart, like balm,
To soothe away all sorrow save despair ;
Her radiant brow scarce wore a tint of care,
A sunny lake where imaged you might trace,
Of Hope and Memory all that's bright and fair,

Where no rude breath of passion came to chase,
Like winds from summer waves, its heaven from that sweet face.

As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,
Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade,-
Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull
Of falling waters, when the winds are laid,-
So he who gazed upon that heavenly maid
Imbibed a sweetness never felt before !
Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've strayed,

A brighter hue the lingering wild flowers wore,
And sweeter was the song the small bird warbled o'er!

Then came Consumption with her languid moods,
Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek
To nurse themselves in silent solitudes ;-
She came with hectic glow, and wasted cheek,
And still the maiden pined more wan and weak,
Till her declining loveliness, each day,
Paled like the second Bow; yet would she speak

The words of Hope, even while she passed away
Amid the closing clouds,—and faded ray by ray!

She died in the bud of Being,~in the spring,
The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air ;
'Mid opening blossoms she was withering,
But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair,

The loved of Heaven, ere yet the hand of Care
Upon the snowy brow hath set his seal,
Or Time's hoar frost come down to blanch the hair,

They fade away and scape what others feel,-
The pangs that pass not by—the wounds that never heal!

They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead,
So beautiful in rest ye scarce might deem,
From form so fair, the gentle spirit fled,
But only lulled in some Elysian dream;
And still the glory of a vanished beam,
The lingering halo of a parted ray,
Shed o'er her lovely sleep its latest gleam;

Like evening's rose-light when the summer day
Hath fled o'er sea and shore and faded far away!
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MATTHIAS.

BY THE REV. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

1

HERE in these groves, of every Muse the haunt,

By life's rough tempests shattered and opprest,

Torquato from his toils aspired to rest,
And in their sheltering bowers, lone habitant,
Has found safe refuge. Here their magic quire,

Still, the sweet Sirens hold; and, by the side

Of echoing streams, the swan in stately pride
Nests ’mid the strings of the melodious lyre.

Then, Stranger, whether from the icy pole

Buoyant of heart-or where the blazing noon

Scorches swart Afric's race, thou sojourn'st here,
To this bright marble bow thy reverent soul,

And o'er the bust of Sebeth's glorious son

Strew pious flowers, and shed the holy tear. Literary Museum.

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