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Or, o'er the seas in safety borne,
With glowing colours may'st adorni

A foreign land ;
Or, in some regal hot-house placed,
Although by other flowers it's graced,

A wonder stand.

Or, 'scaped from tempests, drought, and men, Unhurt thy petals, leaves, or stem,

Thou here may’st stay ; And, having spread thy odours round, And strown thy leaves upon the ground,

Then pass away.

Sweet little flower, in thee I see
An emblem of mortality

And man's sad fate.
Like thine, thus dubious is his lot,
Not sure to live in any spot,

Or any state :

Sometimes he's tost on trouble's billow;
Sometimes he rests on fortune's pillow ;

A varied lot!
And having passed through hope and fear,
A short but turbulent career,

He's soon forgot.

TO S****, WEEPING.

Why shouldst thou weep? no cause hast thou

For one desponding sigh ;
No care has marked that polished brow,

Nor dimmed thy radiant eye.

Why shouldst thou weep ? around thee glows

The purple light of youth,
And all thy looks the calm disclose

Of innocence and truth.

Nay, weep not while thy sun shines bright,

And cloudless is thy day, While past and present joys unite

To cheer thee on thy way ;

While fond companions round thee move

To youth and nature true,
And friends whose looks of anxious love

Thy every step pursue.

Nay, weep not now-reserve thy tears,

For that approaching hour,
When o'er the scenes of other years

The clouds of time shall lower.

When thou, alas ! no more canst see,

But in the realms above,
The friends who ever looked on thee

Unutterable love!

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When some, thy fond companions now

And constant to thy side,
View thee with anger-darkening brow,

Or cold repulsive pride.

Or some, the faithful of that band,

Bless thee with faltering breath,
While from their lips thy trembling hand

Wipes the chill dews of death.

Nay, weep not now-reserve thy tears

For that approaching day,
When through the gradual lapse of years

All joys have stolen away ;

When Memory a wavering light

Sheds dimly o'er the past,
And Hope no longer veils from sight

The horrors of the last.

Nay, weep not then let but the ray

Of heavenly peace be thine, Glorious shall be thy summer's day,

Unclouded its decline.

Then Memory's light, though dim, shall show

How pure thy former years,
While hope her holiest ray shall throw,

On realms beyond the spheres.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

When Spring to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again; The murdered traveller's bones were found,

Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded, careless, by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought

His hanging nest o’erhead, And fearless near the fatal spot,

Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,

And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,

Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,

The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,

Unarmed, and hard beset.

Nor how when round the frosty pole

The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole

To banquet on the dead.

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,

Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,

Within his distant home;
And dreamed, and started as they slept,

For joy that he was come.

So long they looked—but never spied

His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died

Far down that narrow glen.

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

I saw an aged mari upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year ;

Cares, that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, And woman's tears fell fast and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said,

In faltering accents, to that weeping train, Why mourn ye, that our aged friend is dead ?

Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,

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