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Pale evening star! pale evening star!
How dear to me thy glimmerings are;
How many a thought of days gone by
They wake, but ah! how many a sigh.


Alas! my feelings then, like flowers,
Springing to life in April bowers;
Now like yon heap, in ruin dwell,
The past's sad silent chronicle!


How oft, by Avon's verdant side,
I watched thee in the crystal tide,
With one of open heart and brow-
Eliza-ah! where is she now?


That youthful cheek was fair and bright,

That eye beamed like thine own sweet light,

That voice was music, and that heart-
Enough 'twas ours too soon to part!


That face, whose every smile could bless,
Now wears but death's cold fixedness;
Say does her spirit, throned on high,
Look on thee from that
upper sky?


If dim declining years I see,
Still will I think of her-of thee;
And leave the world's unhallowed jar
In thy calm beam, pale evening star!


Stricken of Thee, O Lord! I mourn,

And count the lagging hours;
Impatient for the glad return

Of health's reviving powers.
The sacred word unopened lies,
Nor yields me sweet employ ;




No precious author cheers my soul,
Or fills my heart with joy.*

Fain would I feed on mercies past,
To mitigate my woe;
On my surrounding blessings feast,
While praises overflow.

O for that faith that looks afar

Beyond this mingled scene; That brings the heavenly Canaan near, Though ages roll between.

Courage, my soul! thy threescore years,
And more, are passed away;
And many a bitter sigh and tear,
That marked thy gloomy way.

In infancy constrained to weep
Beneath affliction's rod,

E'en then I felt how rough, how steep,
The way that leads to God.

Once lifted high on pleasure's wing,
The careless years went round;
Rapt in the world's fantastic ring,
No other bliss I found.


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Behold the slowly-opening bud-the infant on the knee, And pause, and think, how like they are-how like their course shall be ;

A rosy

hue spreads o'er the flower, in many a beauteous streak,

rosy flush of health adorns the infant's smiling cheek.


The bud expands the child, too, owns the ripening hand of time;

And both are gay, and wearing on, towards their sunny prime;

The sky above them both is bright; or if a cloud appears, The silvery shower soon passes by-soon dried are boyhood's tears.

But after storms will scathe the flower-tears pour when

manhood's brow

Is shadowed o'er with care, or furrowed deep by sorrow's plough!

Then one its zenith bloom attains-his full endowments


While fleet as dreams, and scarce observed the hoursthe seasons run.

Stern winter comes-old age creeps on-decay will soon assail;

The leaves are dropping one by one- -the vigorous senses fail;

A few brief hours- -a few short years have yet to wear



Then what the flower?-pale scentless dust! the man ?cold breathless clay.


I stood within a dungeon's wall,
And breathed awhile the captive's air;

Yet sweeter than in marble hall,

Arose to heaven the voice of prayer.


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