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Who could twine round the thoughts, of thy bosom so kind,
And then from thy presence could fly,
Who could turn to another, with mutable mind,
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!
FROM THE MINSTREL.
Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
Or shall frail man heaven's dread decrees gainsay,
Which bade the series of events extend
Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end?
One part, one little part, we dimly scan
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem.
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
FROM THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll
When the sun is laid in his purple shroud
Bathed by the dews of the sea,
And the moon's pale light through her fleecy cloud,
Shines dimly over me;
In an hour so still the whispering sigh
Of winds breathed o'er the wave,
And to list to the sea bird's funeral cry,
Are dearer to me, than the flaunting ray
From his sapphire throne in the blaze of day,
O'er mountain and vale, o'er yon misty deep,
O'er man the lord of all,
This balmiest hour hath poured her sleep,
Oh! now to the young enthusiast's soul
Flung on the rocks, o'er the ceaseless roll,
A blighted heart-and a sleepless eye,
And wake from their slumber its visions of joy,
Each pinnacle crag seems a lordly tower,
And each hawthorn glade hath its roseate bowers