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OA! there is a dream of early youth,

And it never comes again;
'Tis a vision of light, of life and truth,

That fits across the brain;
And love is the theme of that early dream,

So wild, so warm, so new,
That all our after years, I deem,

That early dream we rue.

Oh! there is a dream of maturer years,

More turbulent by far! 'Tis a vision of blood, and of woman's tears,

For the theme of that dream is war;
And we toil in the field of danger and death,

And shout in the battle array,
Till we find that fame is a bodyless breath,

That vanisheth away.

Oh! there is a drcam of hoary age,

'Tis a vision of gold in store-
Or sums noted down on the figured page,

To be counted o'er and o'er ;
And we fondly trust in our glittering dust,

As a refuge from grief and pain,
Till our limbs are laid on that last dark bed,

Where the wealth of the world is vain.



And is it thus, from man's birth to his grave

In the path which all are treading ? Is there nought in that long career to save

From remorse and self-upbraiding?
o yes, there's a dream so pure, so bright,

That the being to whom it is given,
Hath bathed in a sea of living light-
And the theme of that dream is Heaven.


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MEMORY. A PEN—to register; a key

That winds through secret wards,
Are well assigned to memory

By allegoric bards.
As aptly, also, might be given

A pencil to her hand;
That, sostening objects, sometimes even

Outstrips the heart's demand;
That smooths foregone distress, the lines

Or lingering care subdues,
Long vanished happiness refines,

And clothes in brighter hues.
Yet, like a tool of fancy, works

Those spectres to dilate,
That startie conscience, as she lurks

Within her lonely seat.
Oh! that our lives, which ilee so fast,

In purity were such,
That not an image of the past

Should fear that pencil's touch!

Retirement then 'might hourly look

Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook,

Contented and serene :

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With heart as calm as lakes that sleep

In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers where they creep,
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.



Youth hath its beauty, lip and smile,

And cheek of roseate ray;
It strikes the admiring glance awhile,

Then feeting fades away.

But age, with hoary wisdom crowned,

That waits its Father's will,
And walks in love with all around,
Hath higher beauty still.







This day, Time winds the exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, coinplexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpaired machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

Will you (the Major 's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith 's engaged with Gray ;)
From housewife cares a minute borrow ?
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me in moralizing ?
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver ?
“Another year is gone forever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion ?
“The passing moment's all we rest on.”
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amused with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?

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