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We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love the lay
We pass with softer steps the place they filled our band among !
But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
go !-the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply,
Yes! I will speak! within my breast whate'er hath seemed to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed for thee!
Brightly it would have gushed, but thou-my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own.
THE TEARLESS EYE.
His soul was overcharged with grief,
Might soothe his throbbing heart to sleep.
As once they could when he was sad,
Or shed 'twas ecstacy of woe→→→
Those tears which make the mourner glad.
he could not-could not weep,
Then grief could
The aching of that weary breast.
And calm that beating pulse of thine! Oh that one soothing tear would start
To vent the sorrow pent within!
ON SEEING THE DEAD BODY OF A YOUNG
If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou could'st mortal be:
And still upon that face I look,
But when I speak-thou dost not say,
And now I feel, as well I
If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
And where thy smiles have been!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
As fancy never could have drawn,
Rev. C. Wolfe.
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel boy to the war is gone,
His father's sword he has girded on,
Though all the world forsake thee,
The minstrel fell-but the foeman's chain
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
No chain shall sully thee,
They who have marked the blooming rose
Each morning, but a fainter shade,
TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RETURN FROM A SEA VOYAGE.