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No cannons peal! no bells are rung !
No loyal hymn by thousands sung,

From Thames to Ganges' shore !—

'Tis past, and, like forgotten things, The birth-day of the best of Kings, We celebrate no more!

Yet history's shall mark the morn,


When England's George the Third was born;
And faithful to her sacred trust,

Shall call that monarch good and just,

No frail memorial this of flattering art;—
Time cannot raze the records of the heart!


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I spring from the gold mottled east
In the face of the new-risen sun,
And I shine in the blaze of the west
When the race of his glory is run;
I sail in the breeze from the sea,
And I breathe in the ocean-weed smell

As the fresh wind from prison set free
Sweeps in joy o'er each mountain and dell.

When on the young wings of the morn
The lav'rock ascends from her nest,
My voice fills her orisons, borne
Far away on the firmament's breast;
The poet who loves the lone stream,
With face so impassioned and pale,
Hears faint as the voice of a dream
My sounds in the zephyrim gale.

I am found in the night's starry crown,
Where the angels and seraphims stray,
In the sky-stain, where spirits look down
Thro' the mists of the pale milky way;
And when midnight's sweet drowsiness breathes
O'er the leaves of a love-sickened flower,

I sleep in the cup that it wreathes,
And sip the bright dew in my bower.

W. D.



Had I the power above this mortal state
To lift my burning soul;-could I arise
As does the mountain-eagle when she flies
Up from the clouded earth, and elevate
Myself to those high regions that create

So many hopes to shake the human heart;
Could I asunder tear the links of fate
Swift as a winged arrow would I dart
Thro' the bright host of angels to thy throne.

Above it-hush! the star of morning sings,
And swinging worlds sweep past it with the tone
As of a distant whirlwind's rushing wings:
Behold the glory that around him streams,-
And yet his fate we murmur in our dreams.



What's earthly hope ?-a worthless thing,
For man's illusion given ;—

A fancied form to which we cling
As 'twere a shape of Heaven.

What's earthly hope ?-a glittering light
That shines but to betray ;—
That feigns to guide us on aright
But only leads astray.

What's earthly hope ?-a jewelled cup
That holds a poisoned draught ;-
Yet thoughtless men still snatch it up
And still the drug is quaffed.

I've held thee long, thou worthless thing,

For man's illusion given;

To earthly hope no more I cling,

In nought I trust but Heaven!



Smile through thy tears like the blush moss-rose,

When the warm rains fall around it;

Thy fond heart now may seek repose,
From the rankling griefs that wound it.
For a parent's loss the eye may fill,
weep till the heart runs over;


But the pang is longer and deeper still,
That wails o'er the grave of a lover.

Smile through thy tears like the pale primrose,
When the zephyrs play around it;

In me let thy trembling heart repose,
I will ward the sorrows that wound it.
Ah! vain were the wish, such love to crave,
As warmed thy maiden bosom ;

Ere Henry slept, where the alders wave
O'er the night-shade's drooping blossom.

Thomas Lyle.

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