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Thy sweet thoughts breathe, from love's delicious

clime, Beauty in youth, and faith in fading age; Through all earth's years of travail, strife, and toil, His parch'd affections linger round thy smile. In the young beauty of thy womanhood Thou livest in the being yet to be, Yearning for blessedness ill understood, And known, young mother! only unto thee. Love is her life; and to the wise and good Her heart is Heaven'tis even unto me, Though oft misguided and betray'd and grieved, The only bliss of which I'm not bereaved. Draw near, ye whom my bosom hath enshrined ! ( Thou ! whose life breathes in my heart! and Thou Whose gentle spirit dwelleth in my mind, Whose love, like sunlight, rests upon thy brow! Draw near the hearth! the cold and moaning wind Scatters the ruins of the forest now, But blessings crown us in our own still homeHail, holy image of the life to come. Hail, ye fair charities! the mellow showers Of the earth's spring-time! from your rosy breath The way-worn pilgrim, through the tempest lours, Breathes a new being in the realm of death, And bears the burden of life's darker hours With cheerlier aspect o'er the lonely heath, That spreads between us and the unfading clime Where true love triumphs o'er the death of Time.

STANZAS

WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE.

BY MISS JEWSBURY.

ONE evening as the Sun went down,
Gilding the mountains bare and brown,

I wander'd on the shore;
And such a blaze o'er ocean spread,
And beauty on the meek earth shed,

I never saw before !

I was not lonely ;-dwellings fair
Were scatter'd round and shining there ;-

Gay groups were on the green
Of children, wild with reckless glee,
And parents, that could childlike be

With them and in that scene.

And on the sea, that look'd of gold,
Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold

Glided, and yet seem'd still;
While sounds rose in the quiet air,
That mingling made sweet music there,

Surpassing minstrel's skill !

The breezy murmur from the shore,-
Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er,

Alike by sire and child,
The whistle shrill,—the broken song,
The far off flute-notes lingering long,

The lark's strain rich and wild.

I look’d, I listen’d,—and the spell
Of Music and of Beauty fell

So radiant on my heart,
That scarcely durst I really deem
What yet I would not own a dream,

Lest dream-like, it depart.

'Twas sunset in the world around; And, looking inwards, so I found

'Twas sunset in the soul; Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there, But musings sweet, and visions fair,

In placid beauty stole.

But moods like these, the human mind,
Though seeking oft, may seldom find,

Or, finding, force to stay ;-
As dews upon the drooping flower,
That having shown their little hour,

Dry up-or fall away.

But though all pleasures take their flight, Yet some will leave memorials bright

For many an after year; This sunset, that dull night will shade,These visions, which must quickly fade, Will half-immortal memory braid

For me, when far from here !

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And many an hour,
In sleet and shower,

By the lighthouse rock I stray,
And watch till dark
For the winged bark
Of him that's far

away.

The Churchyard's bound
I wander round,

Among the grassy graves ;
But all I hear
Is the North wind drear,

And all I see, the waves !'

Oh roam not there,
Thou mourner fair,

Nor pour the fruitless tear!
Thy plaint of woe
Is all too low-

The dead, they cannot hear.

The Northern Star
Is set afar,

Set in the raging sea;
And the billows spread
O'er the sandy bed,

That holds thy love from thee!

THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.

FROM A PICTURE BY NEWTON.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

GRACEFUL “ Phantom of delight !"
Glorious type of beauty bright!
Such as haunts the poet's vision,
When his dreams are all elysian,-
When his musing fancy brings
Shadows of all lovely things;
And famed Zeuxis' art excelling,
He hath form’d a second Helen,-
Wanting but the power of speech,-
From the glowing traits of each !

But she may not vie with thee!-
There's a sweet simplicity
Flitting round thine open brow,
Sporting on thy ripe lips now,
Mantling o'er thy maiden cheek
(In hues that leave description weak),
With a brightness all too real
For a poet's beau ideal!

Though an angel's grace is thine, Though the light is half divine, That with chasten'd lustre flashes From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes; Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair, And that sweetly pensive air, Speak thee but of mortal birth, An erring, witching child of earth; In each varied mood revealing Human hope and human feeling.

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