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For her if Sorrow lay in wait,
She saw not he was nigh,
He might have pass'd her by ;
From grave and learned men,
The plaything is a pen;
Of those who, for the sake
Which they cannot partake;
There lives not he to whom
Than to the man of gloom;
Flush'd on her face or ere
The night-wind stirr'd her hair ;
Nor could there have been found
With every thing around, -
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Was nursed in whirling storms,
Thce, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thoe on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
And hardens her to bear
H. K. White.
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side
They filled one home with glee;
By mount and stream and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O’er each fair sleeping brow;
Where are those dreamers now?
One, midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid ;
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone
O’er his low bed may weep.
Above the noble slain :
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ;
The last of that bright band.
Beneath the same green tree ;
Around one parent knee !
And cheered with song the hearth;
And naught beyond, on earth!
THE VOICES OF HOME.
The voices of my home,-I hear them still !
Have died in others,-yet to me they come,
They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say,
And find mine ark !-Yet whither? I must bear
So must it be ! -These skies above me spread :-
Launch thy bark, mariner !
Christian, God speed thee ! Let loose the rudder-bands,
Good angels lead thee ! Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come; Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home! Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee; Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee. Reef-in the foresail, there !
Hold the helm fast ! Somlet the vessel wear
There swept the blast. “What of the night, watchman !
What of the night ?" “ Cloudy—all quiet
No land yet—all's right."
Danger may be
Securest to thee.
Clean out the hold;
Heave out thy gold ; There—let the ingots go
Now the ship rights; Hurra! the harbour's near
Lo, the red lights!
At inlet or island ;
Straight for the high land ;
Cut through the foam ; Christian, cast anchor now,
Heaven is thy home!
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ;
THE CHAPEL BY THE SHORE.
By the shore a plot of ground
Where day and night and day go by,