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From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace;
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;
But patience shall never depart! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,
In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd, With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind.
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
A thousand wild waves on the shore !
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!
To bear is to conquer our fate.
FLY NOT YET.
FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour
And maids who love the moon!
Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet; the fount that play'd,
To burn when night was near;
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,-
As those that sparkle here!
I LOVE to set me on some steep,
And hear the waters roar;
Then burst upon the shore.
I love when seated on its brow,
And eye the distant vale;
Bow to the rising gale.
I love far downward to behold
And hear the tinkling sound
Then swell in echoes round.
I love to range the valleys too,
Which rear their heads on high,
And overhead the sky,
I love to see, at close of day,
While rolling down the west;
In purple robes is dress’d.
I love, when evening veils the day,
To cast a glance around,
O'er the vast vault profound.
I love to let wild Fancy stray,
Up to the shining height,
And charm the ravish'd sight.
I love from thence to take my flight
And reach my native plain,
And lights the world again.
A POET'S TOMB.
THOUGH my visions of life are soon to depart,
Yet sigh not, dear Helen! thus deeply for me: The ling’ring pulsations that throb in my heart
Are only its fond apprehensions for thee. Oh! sad are the perils that compass thy way,
For a season of sorrow and darkness is nigh:When the glow-worm appears at the close of the day,
Her lustre betrays her, and dooms her to die.
For me, love! no sweetwasting odours shall burn,
No marble invoke thee to deck it with flow'rs; My ashes shall rest in a crystalline urn,
And that urn be abroad in the sun and the show'rs. It shall lightly be swept by the cool-blowing gale,
When the gay-coloured evening shines cheerfully through: Around it the shadows of twilight shall sail,
And the mists of the morning embalm it in dew.
Sweet girl! may thy relies be laid in that shrine!.
For though death, we are told, is unconscious of love, Yet it soothes me to hope they may mingle with mine,
As our spirits will mingle for ever above. And if, when the race of our being is run,
Any record remain of the loves that we bore, Our story shall be, that in life we were one,
And in dying we met, to be parted no more.