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Silence and Foresight-Death the skeleton,
And Time the shadow,-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple, scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie and listen to the mountain flood,
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT."

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.”

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart :

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine :
A song in mockery and despite

Of shades, and dews, and silent night,
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves,

I heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day,
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze;

He did not cease, but cooed, and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee :
That was the song-the song for me!

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

Oh! what's the matter-what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill-fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

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