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But art thou sure the goddess leads
5 Yon motley group that onward press? Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes, Arrayed in Pleasure's borrowed dress. When last I saw her smile serene, And spread her soft enchantments wide, My lovely child adorned the scene, And sported by the flowing tide. The fairest shells for me to seek, Intent the little wanderer strayed ; The rose that blossomed on his cheek
15 Still deepening as the breezes played. Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, How did my heart delight to trace A soul-all harmony and love ! Fair as the dreams by fancy given, A model of unearthly grace; Whene'er he raised his eyes to heaven, He seemed to seek his native place. More lovely than the morning ray, His brilliant form of life and light Through strange gradations of decay In sad succession shocked my sight. And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother's tears. Soon was my dream of bliss o'ercast, And all the dear illusion o'er ; A few dark days of terror past,
35 And joy and Frederick bloom no more.
THE DEATH BED.
We watched her breathing through the night,
So silently we seemed to speak,
Our very hopes belied our fears,
For when the morn came dim and sad,
LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD,
Methinks it is good to be here;
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
Shall we build to Ambition ? oh, no!
For see! they would pin him below,
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To Beauty ? ah, no !-she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 15
Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud ?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
To Riches ? alas! 'tis in vain;
The treasures are squandered again;
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-
Ah! here is a plentiful board !
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Or fled with the spirit above;
Unto Sorrow ?— The dead cannot grieve;
Which compassion itself could relieve !
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah, no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around—the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown ! 45
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, 49 Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Who shall put forth on thee,
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
14 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.
Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,
Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,