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And the dull sexton, faint, with swimming brain,
Drops down the grave where others should have lain,
High from the storm th' avengeful angel, now,
Descends abrupt with deep revolving brow:
Broad round he looks, and nought, where'er he turns,
But silence, death, and deserts drear discerns;
Pensive he pauses, mid the tombs that rise,
And o'er the wreck, the righteous judgment sighs.

ODE.

THE busy scenes of day are now withdrawn,
And evening darkens all the lawn.

Soft thoughts and solemn musings blest
That touch the Muse-enraptur'd bosom best,
When dusky evening spreads

Her mantle o'er the vales and mountains heads,
O! come, ye well repay

The parting of the busy day.

The nightingale that from the sun retires,
Whose song and fancy in its flight

Is marr'd by day's too curious light,

The evening hour admires:

Took with the tuneful mood

Then most with warblings wild she charms the wood,

SHAW,

MARY'S EVENING SIGH.

BY MR. R. BLOOMFIELD.

1.

WITH lovely pearl the western sky
Is glowing far and wide,

And yon light golden clouds that fly
So slowly side by side;

The deepening tints, the arch of light,
E'en I with rapture see;

And sigh, and bless the charming sight
That lures my love from me.

2.

O hill! that shads't the valley here,
Thou bear'st on thy green brow, i
The only wealth to Mary dear,

And all she'll ever know.
Full in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise

My Edward's form; he looks to me
A statue in the skies.

3.

Descend, my love, the hour is come;
Why linger on the hill?

The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou canst see him still;
Yet, why a lonely wanderer stray?
Alone the joy pursue?

The glories of the closing day,
Can charm thy Mary too.

4.

O Edward, when we stroll'd along,

Beneath the waving corn,

And both confess'd the

power of

And bless'd the dewy morn;

song,

To thy fond words my heart replied,
(My presence then could move)
"How sweet with Mary by my side,
"To gaze and talk of love."

5.

Thou art not false;-that cannot be !

Yet I my rivals deem,

Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,

The silence, and the stream.

If these, my love, detain thee now,

I'll yet forgive thy stay;

But with to-morrow's dawn, come thou

We'll brush the dews away.

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THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

FOUNDED ON A TRUE STORY.

By W. SPENCER, ESQ.

WHY mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around,

To

yon new-sodded grave, as your slow steps advance? In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground!) Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile from France.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe, No longer the sport of misfortune and chance!

Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate, And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart; No comfort, no hope, his own heart could elate, Tho' comfort and hope he to all could impart,

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise, And sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain, When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew; in his straw-cover'd shed For the snow-beaten beggar his faggot to trim,

One tear of delight he could drop on the bread Which he shar'd with the poor, tho' still poorer than

him.

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast Ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace our hamlet could bring,

He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last;

But he still had a pray'r for his Country and King.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep! From the feast, from the wake, from the village green

dance,

How oft shall we wander, by moonlight to weep O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

To the church going bride shall thy mem'ry impart One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance, One flow'r from her garland, one tear from her heart, Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.

VERSES SENT TO MISS

WITH THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

Soon the tear shall be dry, soon the flow'r shall be sere, Which mourners on earth to these ashes have giv’n, But heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear, For music like thine is the language of heav'n.

Oh! then shall this turf bed with flow'rs ever crown'd, And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave, For hands more than mortal shall garden the ground, And Angels shall weep o'er the Emigrant's Grave!

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