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Save when some mournful train in deep despair, Bearing the pall around the bier-borne dead, Follow unto the grave some well-beloved head.
Stupendous stones there moulder into dust-
Gone is the altar of that blessed trust
For which the pains of martyrdom were borne,
Here, like the Roman *, for a moment pause
* Marius over the ruins of Carthage.
The curtains of the night are far dispread,
Hope's fading lamp slow wastes, from day to day;
Summon from out the grave its vanquished prey, When these frail wrecks are swept like ocean-foam away.
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.
The bark that held a prince went down,
And what was England's glorious crown
He lived-for life may long be borne,
Why comes not death to those who mourn?
There stood proud forms before his throne,
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
He sat where festal bowls went round;
He saw the tourney's victor crowned,
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep-
Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
And strangers took the kinsman's place
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Fresh hopes were born for other years
He never smiled again!
OH! THE LADY I ADMIRE.
Oh! the Lady I admire is so beautiful and bright,
And dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.
The ringlets clustering o'er her brow, are of an auburn
And radiant as the golden light that gilds the summer sky;
Her voice has all the melody of an Æolian lyre,
The beauty of her modest cheek outshines the rose's hue, Her brow is like the moonlight when 'tis loveliest to view, Her blooming lips my bosom fill with rapturous desire, And dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.
And oh! her smile is sweeter than the sunshine on the
I'd give the world, were it mine, if she would smile on me ; I'll love her till the throb of life shall from my heart ex
Oh dearly, dearly do I love the Lady I admire.
STANZAS ON A LADY.
She was a thing of morn, with the soft calm
Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart like balm,
Her radiant brow scarce wore a trace of care
A sunny lake, where imaged you might trace,
Of hope and memory, all that's bright and fairWhere no rude breath of passion came to chase,
Like winds from summer wave, its heaven from that sweet face.
As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,