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Oh! brighter than the brightest star,

That glimmers through the haze of night, When the blue vault of heaven afar

Is studded o'er with silver light; And brighter than that brilliant sky, May be the glance of woman's eye.


Oh! lovely as the golden ray

Of sunshine sleeping on the glade, When morning brightens into day,

And in its radiance melts the shade; And lovelier than that gorgeous sun, May be the smile from woman won.


But beauty shines not, may not shine,
In brightness from a woman's eye;
Nor does she in a smile recline,
Blooming, as flowerets do, to die.

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All earth-born charms shall fade in death,
Nor change nor ruin beauty bath.


She dwells but in the pious mind,
Apart for ever from decay,
Where lives the light of heavenly kind,
That shines unto the perfect day.'
Where faith and hope their joy impart,
Her home is in the virtuous heart.

William Anderson.


Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain ;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Rowland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:

They parted-ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.



Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!

My Minstrels are the trees,

The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, Earth's sounds my symphonies.

There's music sweeter to my soul

In the weed by the wild wind fanned In the heave of the surge, than ever stole From mortal minstrel's hand.

There's mighty music in the roar

Of the oaks on the mountain's side, When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar, And the lightnings flash blue and wide.

There's mighty music in the swell

Of Winter's midnight waveWhen all above is the thunder peal, And all below is the grave.

There's music in the city's hum,
Heard in the noontide glare,
When its thousand mingling voices come
On the breast of the sultry air.

There's music in the mournful swing
Of the lonely village bell,
And think of the spirit upon the wing
Released by its solemn knell.

There's music in the forest-stream,

As it plays through the deep ravine, Where never Summer's breath or beam Has pierced its woodland screen.

There's music in the thundering sweep

Of the mountain waterfall,

As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap,
From the brow of its marble wall.

There's music in the dawning morn,

Ere the lark his pinion dries

'Tis the rush of the breeze through the dewy cornThrough the garden's perfumed dyes.

There's music on the twilight cloud,

As the clanging wild swans spring,
As homewards the screaming ravens crowd,
Like squadrons upon the wing.

There's music in the depth of night,
When the world is still and dim,

And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,
Like thrones of the Cherubim !


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