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42 ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves

Around the Poet's temples hung,
How turn’d to gall, and how profaned

By envious or by idle tongue !
Given by vapid fools, who laud

Only if others do the same;
Forgotten even while the breath

Is on the air that bears your name.
And he! what was his fate, the bard,

He of the Desert Harp, whose song
Flow'd freely, wildly, as the wind

That bore him and his harp along ?
That fate which waits the gifted one,

To pine, each finer impulse check'd;
At length to sink, and die beneath

The shade and silence of neglect.
And this the polish'd age, that springs

The phenix from dark years gone by,
That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves

Her warrior and her bard to die.
To die in

and pride,
The light of hope and genius past,
Each feeling wrung, until the heart

Could bear no more, so broke at last.
Thus withering amid the wreck

Of sweet hopes, high imaginings,
What can the Minstrel do, but die,

Cursing his too beloved strings !



I THINK of thee, in the night

When all beside is still,
And the moon comes out, with her pale sad light,

To sit on the lonely hill :-
When the stars are all like dreams,

And the breezes all like sighs,
And there comes a voice from far off streams,

Like thy spirit's low replies !
I think of thee by day,

Mid the cold and busy crowd,
When the laughter of the young and gay

Is far too glad and loud;
I hear thy low sad tone,

And thy sweet young smile I see, -My heart—my heart were all alone,

But for its dreams of thee!
Of thee, who wert so dear,

And, yet, I do not weep;
For thine eyes were stain'd by many a tear

Before they went to sleep;
And, if I haunt the past,

Yet may I not repine,
That thou hast won thy rest at last,

And all the grief is mine.
I think upon thy gain,

Whate'er to me it cost,
And fancy dwells, with less of pain,

On all that I have lost;
Hope—like the cuckoo's endless tale,

-Alas! it wears her wing !-
And love, that—like the nightingale-

Sings only in the spring!


Thou art my spirit's all,

Just as thou wert in youth ;
Still from thy grave no shadows fall

Upon my lonely truth ;-
A taper yet above thy tomb,

Since lost its sweeter rays, And what is memory through the gloom,

Was hope in brighter days! I am pining for the home

Where sorrow sinks to sleep, Where the weary and the weepers come,

And they cease to toil and weep!
Why walk about with smiles,

That each should be a tear,
Vain as the summer's glowing spoils,

Above an early bier.

Oh like those fairy things,

Those insects of the east, Which have their beauty in their wings,

And shroud it while they rest;
Which fold their colours of the sky

When earthward they alight,
And flash their splendors on the eye,

Only to take their flight;

I never knew how dear thou wert,
Till thou wert borne


y ! I have it, yet, about my heart,

Thy beauty of that day;
As if the robe thou wert to wear,

In other climes, were given,
That I might learn to know it there,

And seek thee out, in heaven!




My friend, I gave a glad assent

To your request at noon, But now I find I cannot leave

My little ones so soon. Early I came, and as my feet

First enter'd at the door, " Reniember,” to myself I said,

“ You must dismiss at four.” But slates, and books, and maps appear,

And many a dear one cries, « Oh tell us where that river runs,

And where these mountains rise, And where that blind old monarch reign'd,

And who was king before, And stay a little after five,

And tell us something more.” And then my little Alice comes,

And who unmoved can view The glance of that imploring eye,

Pray, teach me something too." Yet who would think amid the toil

(Though scarce a toil it be),
That through the door the muses coy

Should deign to peep at me.
Each brow is somewhat cold and stern,

As if it fain would say,
“We did not know you kept a school,

We must have lost our way.”
Their visit was but short indeed,

As these slight numbers show,
But ah! they bade me write with speed,

My friend, I cannot go.

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“Forget thee?”—If to dream by night, and muse on

thee by day; If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting power,

[hour, If winged thoughts that fit to thee-a thousand in an If busy Fancy blending thee with all


future lot, If this thou call'st“ forgetting,” thou, indeed, shalt

be forgot!

the moon;

“ Forget thee?"-Bid the forest birds forget their

sweetest tune! Forget thee?”—Bid the sea forget to swell beneath Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re

freshing dew; Thyself forget thine “own dear land,” and its

tains wild and blue;" Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd

spot: When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt

be forgot!


Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and

fancy-free; For, God forbid ! thy gladsome heart should grow less

glad for me; Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine to rove,

slove; But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, Forget me then ;-hut ne'er believe that thou canst

be forgot!

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