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THE star which comes at close of day to shine

To I. F.
More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn, Feb. 1840
Is Friendship’s emblem, whether the forlorn
She visiteth, or, shedding light benign
Through shadesthat solemnise Life's calm decline,
Doth make the happy happier.

This have we
Learnt, Isabel, from thy society,
Which now we too unwillingly resign
Though for brief absence. But farewell ! the

page Glimmers before

my sight through thankful tears,
Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve
Our truth, when we, old yet unchilled by age,
Call thee, though known but for a few fleet years,
The heart-affianced sister of our love!

WHEN Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown St Mary's,
St Mary's Church, the preacher then would cry:- Cardiff
“Thus, Christian people, God his might hath Jan. 23, 1842

That ye to him your love may testify;
Haste, and rebuild the pile.”—But not a stone
Resumed its place. Age after age went by,
And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety
In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan.
But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim
In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice;
Let the new Church be worthy of its aim
That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice!
Oh! in the past if cause there was for shame,
Let not our times halt in their better choice.

On the death Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy, of the Poet's For such thou wert ere from our sight removed, Grandson

Holy, and ever dutiful—beloved

From day to day with never-ceasing joy,
And hopes as dear as could the heart employ
In aught to earth pertaining ? Death has proved
His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved-
Death conscious that he only could destroy
The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low
To moulder in a far-off field of Rome;
But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's home:
When such divine communion, which we know,
Is felt, thy Roman burial-place will be
Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee.

Sursum Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom's creed,
Corda! A pitiable doom; for respite brief
1846 A care more anxious, or a heavier grief?

Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed
God's bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed,
Must Man, with labour born, awake to sorrow
When Flowers rejoice and Larks with rival speed
Springfrom their nests to bid the Sun good morrow?
They mount for rapture as their songs proclaim
Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky;
But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh?
Like those aspirants let us soar- our aim,
Through life's worst trials, whether shocks or

A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs.

GIORDANO, verily thy Pencil's skill

To Lucca
Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest grace

The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill ;
And Dian gazing on the Shepherd's face
In rapture,-

yet suspending her embrace,
As not unconscious with what power the thrill
Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase,
And, with his sleep, that beauty calm and still.
O may this work have found its last retreat
Here in a Mountain-bard's secure abode,
One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia showed
A face of love which he in love would greet,
Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat ;
Or lured along where green-wood paths he trod.

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high The clouded
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds Moon
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the steadfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.

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To an Octo- AFFECTIONS lose their object; Time brings forth
genarian No successors; and, lodged in memory,
1846 If love exist no longer, it must die,-

Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth,
Or never hope to reach a second birth.
This sad belief, the happiest that is left
To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er bereft,
Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth.
Though poor and destitute of friends thou art,
Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race,
One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part
The utmost solitude of age to face,
Still shall be left some corner of the heart
Where Love for living Thing can find a place.




Dedicated to National Independence and Liberty


Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Composed by Star of my Country!-on the horizon's brink the Sea-side, Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink

near Calais On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,

August, 1802
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st

Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

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