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THE STUDENT.

Ar midnight, in his lonely room,
The toil-worn student sate,
His genius flashing 'mid the gloom
Of darkly gathering fate,

Like lights that gleam around the dead,
Laid in their last cold rest-

The shadowy streams of light that spread Round wandering souls unblessed.

He leaned his burning brow upon
His cold and trembling hand,
And thought on hours of rapture gone,
Far in his native land;

Hours when he held communion high
With loved ones now no more,
And worshipped 'neath the starry sky,
On his own island's shore.

The forms of all that once were dear
Came thronging round his heart,
Like angel shadows that appear
In deserts far apart;

But every lip was mute and pale,

And every eye was dim,

And they passed on to death's lone vale,

Where wailed the funeral hymn.

He wandered back to earlier years,
And happier scenes afar;

And dreamed he saw those welcome tears,
Which the heart's offering are;

THE STUDENT.

But, as he gazed, the scene became
All darkness on his eye,

And voices shrieked aloud his name,
Far o'er the midnight sky.

The light, that long had beamed among
The louring shades of woe,

Grew dim-the spirit, high and strong,
Aspired no more below;

He felt that life's last hope had fled,
A great, a good man's fame,
And that he hasted to the dead,
Where all men are the same.

Like moonlight, o'er a marble tomb,
The sun of being seemed;
Lore shone no more amid the gloom
Where glory once had beamed;
Earth unto him brought no delight,
Time was an age of woe ;-
Slowly he fled where all is night,
But sleep-like none below.

275

AUTUMN FLOWERS.

THOSE few pale Autumn flowers!
How beautiful they are!

Than all that went before,

Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why?They are the last-
The last the last !-the last

O, by that little word,

How many thoughts are stirred!
That sister of the past!

276

AUTUMN FLOWERS.

Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers!
Ye 're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones
(That time the fastest spends),
Last tears in silence shed,
Last words, half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends!

Who but would fain compress
A life into a day;

The last day spent with one,
Who, ere the morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye?

O, precious, precious moments!
Pale flowers! ye 're types of those-
The saddest! sweetest! dearest !
Because, like those, the nearest
Is an eternal close.

Pale flowers!-Pale perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath;

I leave the summer rose-
For younger, blither brows,

Tell me of change and death!

STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES.

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delightThe winds, the birds, the ocean floods: The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweed strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noontide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

LYRE.

A a

278

STANZAS WRITTEN AT NAPLES.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are:
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament-for I am one

Whom men love not :-and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

As sweeps the bark before the breeze,
While waters coldly close around,
Till of her pathway through the seas
The track no more is found;
Thus passing down Oblivion's tide,
The beauteous visions of the mind
Fleet as that ocean pageant glide,
And leave no trace behind.

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