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We shall think on the days, with those friends we have seen,

And in fancy live o'er them once more ;
And sighing, remember that such things have been,
But will they seem bright as before?

Ah no! even then, to our memory shall steal
Some scenes, which with these may compare ;
And many a sorrow, which they did not feel;
And a joy, which they did not share.

Thus in parting, perhaps we are breaking a link
Which will ne'er be united again;

And firm as that chain is-'tis painful to think
That absence may rend it in twain.



Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower;
Then think of the friend, who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you:
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain,
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,


But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.-

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up,
To the highest top sparkle, each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends-shall be with you that night,
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles,
Too blest, if it tells me, that 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, 'I wish he were here!'

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features, that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled:

You may break-you may ruin the vase, if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

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Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her breath hath lost all its faint perfume,
And the gloss hath dropped from her auburn hair,
And her forehead is pale-though no longer fair.

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold-mortality;

And the smile that played on her lip bath fled
And every grace hath now left the dead!

Like slaves they obeyed her, in height of power, But left her all-in her wintry hour;

And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrank from the tone of her last sad sigh;
And this is man's fidelity!

'Tis woman alone, with a finer heart,
Can see all those idols of life depart;
And love the more-and soothe and bless

Man in his utter wretchedness!




Those few pale Autumn flowers.

How beautiful they are!

Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why ?-they are the last!
The last the last the last!
Oh! by that little word,

How many thoughts are stirred,
That sister of the past!

Pale flowers,-pale perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things
Types of those better moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid-rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones
That time the fastest spends,

Last tears in silence shed,
Last words-half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends.

Who but would fain compress
A life into a day;
The last day spent with one,
Who, ere the morrow's sun,

Must leave us and for aye?

Oh! precious, precious moments,
Pale flowers! ye're types of those
The saddest-sweetest-dearest-
Because, like those, the nearest
To an eternal close.

Pale flowers--pale perishing flowers,
I woo your gentle breath ;

I leave the summer rose,

For younger--blither brows;

Tell me of change and death !--


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