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But why not, dearest, tell me why?

He still with ardour press'd,
Then said, by that love beaming eye

This haste is all a jest;
And could it by a bet be tried,

Right sure I am to win it,
Yet still the pretty Emma cried,

I cannot stay a minute.
You can't, but Miss, said he, you must,

And shall go with me too, Nay, more, I'll make, by all that's just,

Å bride this morn of you. This morn, said she, make me a bride,

There's something pleasing in it; Oh ! how I'm hurried, Emma cried,

Pray don't let's stay a minute.

THINE AM I. THINE am I, my faithful fair,

Thine, my lovely Nancy,
Every pulse among my veins,

Every roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,

There to throb and languish:
Though despair had wrung its core;

That would heal its anguish. Take away those rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure;
Turn away thine eyes of love,

Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love ?

Night without a morning;
Love's the cloudless summer's sun,

Nature gay adorning.


I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curld

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near ; And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world,

The heart that was humble might hope for it here. 'Twas noon, and on flowers that languish'd around,

In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee;
Ev'ry leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim'd,

With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I prais’d her, and weep when

I blam'd, How bless'd could I live, and how calm could I die! By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh’d upon innocent lips,

Which had never been sigh’d on by any but mine.

COME REST IN THIS BOSOM. COME rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer ! Though the herd bave flown from thee, thy home is

still here ; Here still is a smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.

Oh ! what was love made for if tis not the same
Through joy and through torments, through glory

and shame ?
I knew not I ask'd not if guilt's in that heart,
But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art !
Thou call'st me thy angel in moments of bliss,-
Still thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this, -
Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too !

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HOME, SWEET HOME. Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with else

where; Home, home-sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home, there's no place like

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ;
Oh! give me my lonely thatch'd cottage again,
Where the birds sing gaily that come at my call ;
Give me these, with the peace of mind dearer than all;

Home, home-sweet home;
There's no place like home, there's no place like


The scene was more beautiful far to my eye,

Than if day in its pride had array'd it ;
The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky

Look'd pue as the spirit that made it. ·
The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd

On the shadowy waves playful motion,

From the dim distant isle, till the beacon-fire blaz'd

Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast,

Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers; The sea-bird had flown to lier wave-girdled nest,

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers: One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,

(All hush'd was the billows' commotion) And thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope,

That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long pass’d and the scene is afar;

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blaz'd on the breast of the billow. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies

And death stills the heart's last emotion; 0! then may the seraph of mercy arise

Like a star on eternity's ocean!

WHEN William Tell was doom'J to die,

Or hit the mark upon his infant's head-
The bell toil'd out, the hour was nigh,

And soldiers march'd with grief and dread!
The warrior came serene and mild,

Gaz'd all around with dauntless look,
Till his fond boy unconscious smil'd;

Then nature and the father spoke.
And now, each valiant Swiss his grief partakes,

For they sigh,

And wildly cry,
Poor William Tell! once hero of the lakes.
But soon is heard the muffled drum,

And straight the pointed arrow dies,

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The trembling boy expects his doom,

All, all shriek out he dies! he dies.” When lo! the lofty trumpet sounds!

The mark is hit! the child is free! Into his father's arms he bounds,

Inspir'd by love and liberty! And now each valiant Swiss their joy partakes,

For mountains ring,

Whilst they sing,
Live William Tell! the hero of the lakes.

This world is all fleeting show,

For man's illusion giv'n;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven.
And false the light on Glory’s plume,

As fading hues of even; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb

There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day!

From wave to wave we're driven; And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip,

'Twill chase each pensive tear;
"Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,

But oh! 'tis more sincere.

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