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How sweet upon my slumbers break
Those solemn sounds with dying fall;
The music of the midnight wake,
Its streams that weep o'er past delight,
It sinks upon the heart like balm,
Of brighter days the memory brings; And nights of beauty-peace and calm, All fled on angel wings.
Now, through the silence deep and wide
And sweet as that which charmed the hours
From Chaos, when Creation sprung; And on green Eden's early bowers The stars of morning sung.
Or, such as tranced lone shepherds, when
Oh thus may sleepless sorrow's ear
John Malcolm, Esq.
And is it in the flight of threescore years
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge;
The rose had been washed (just washed in a shower)
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
The cup was quite full, and the leaves were all wet, And it looked to a fanciful view,
As it wept for the buds, it had left with regret
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
And such, I exclaimed, is the pityless part,
Some act by the delicate mind;
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less
Might have bloomed with its owner a while; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.
THE PARTING SONG.
I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! thou'rt from my native dell,
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well -flow on, my stream! flow on thou bright and free,
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me. But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
I see thee once again, my home! thou'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the groves,
The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother loves!
The hour the mother loves for me beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
Not as the dead!-no, not the dead! we speak of them-we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep;