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The strain that round thee loy'd to sail,
And hush thy bosom's voice of wail ;
The breeze that bore its blight away,
And left the bloom that mocks decay:
The spirit's flash, that dried thine eyes
With burning beams of Paradise -
All these I was, all this I wrought,
And worlds beside beyond thy thought.
I was the hope that ne'er was grieved,

The guide that told thee where to build it, I was the dream that ne'er deceived,

The waking truth that still fulfilled it ; The thought that blossom'd to the smile

Thy maiden pride could rule so well, The thrill that told thee grief and guile

In thought of thine could never dwell. And more I was, but earthly sight

Can ne'er pursue my changes through ; Nor earthly words tell what delight

On each of these wild changes grew. But, oh, this was not half that bless'd;

Another torch of joy was beaming, It gave

its glow to all the rest, And, like a halo round them streaming,

It was too glorious e'en for dreaming !
For when, methought, my last true sigh

Fled with my fleeting breath,
The love no living prayer could buy

Fell fondly to my lot in death;

And round my mem'ry sweetly clung,
A wreath in Seraph gardens sprung,
That ne'er could bloom less fair than now,
Nor yield one flower to mortal brow.

“I was not once”-so told that sigh

The soul that stoop'd for love to bind, But thought the scorn in woman's eye

More graced it than the tear behind; And many a heart had pass'd away,

And many a fervent vow was chill'd, Before I learn'd how weak are they

Who stem the tide that nature will’d. Ambition pride may have their time,

Though never made for woman's breast;
But love hath been the only clime

Wherein her hopes might rest.
Alas ! that clime had nursed its bloom,
For nought of hope except the tomb;
For round me still though swell the lays,
Too low in choice, too loud in praise,
I turn my



in vain
For him who ne'er can praise again ;
And each new theme they blindly seek
With new reproaches burns my cheek,

Memorial of the worthless store,

Denied to him who loved me more Than these may feign or I may speak. In truth, methinks, though spring hath shed Her gems of purple o'er his bed,

In true-love tones he tells me still
A story of unearthly thrill,
And gives me gleams of scenes so bright
My shrinking fancy veils her sight -
And well I know these scenes are mine,

If sacred still his mem'ry be,

lone sorrow ne'er recline
On soul that loves me less than he."

Thus nought was wanting to my bliss

Except to tell how near
Thy spirit kept his watch; but this

On earth might ne'er appear ;
And for the single joy withheld,

What brighter beams were given
When that same mystic voice dispelled

The veil 'twixt earth and heaven !
Oh come,” it said, no more forlorn !

Thy watch is done, thy charge is free! Now learn how hearts that time hath torn

Unite in immortality.” With that I bent me o'er thy face, To steal thy spirit's first embrace ; And who, methought, would e'er be curst

In such a world as this to stay, Where all that 's fairest is the first

To mock his hopes and melt away ; And nought but disappointment

And nought but sin and sorrow lasting Oh, who, methought would e'er endure

Its hour of bliss, its age of blasting?
I paused no more; the doom was seal'd,

And fate and all its fears defying,
Thy wondering spirit stood reveald,

Unchanged in aught except undying ; And to my heart thy heart was prest,

All bashful, beauteous, undenying, And on my lips thy lips confessed

The tale that had no voice but sighing : And on mine eyes thine eyes did rest,

To speechless question speechlessly replying; Whiles on thine own blue dwelling turning,

Whiles on the form which late had staid thee; Now first with angel blushes learning

How gloriously the heavens had made thee! 'Twas thus our spirits met at last, Earth and its mem'ry thus we pass'd, Upon the breath of rapture fleeing, Intense and endless as our being.


Poor Tom, whom the foul fiend hath made proud Of heart to ride on a bay trotting horse.

King Lear.

My friend Bob is a vastly clever young man. There are few things which he cannot do even to his own satisfaction, which, considering his fastidious taste, with respect to other people, is saying all that is necessary. It is the case with a great many gifted persons of my acquaintance that they cannot restrain themselves from claiming their just dues when they hear others boasting of things which they can do much better themselves. Such a person is my friend Bob. We happened to be invited, one day last winter, to a large dinner-party, where we met the chief of the neighbouring gentry; and here, as on all other occasions, my friend established

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