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190

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

And, singling out each blessed even

The star that earliest lights the sea,
Forget another shines in heaven

While shines the one beloved by thee.

Lost one! companion of the blest

Thou, who in purer air dost dwell,
Ere froze the life-drops in thy breast,

Or fled thy soul its mystic cell,
We passed on earth such hours of bliss

As none but kindred hearts can know,
And, happy in a world like this,

But dreamed of that to which we go,
Till thou wert called in thy young years

To wander o'er that shoreless sea,
Where, like a mist, time disappears,

Melting into eternity.

I'm thinking of some sunny hours,

That shone out goldenly in June,
When birds were singing 'mong the flowers

With wild sweet voices all in tune,
When o'er thy locks of paly gold

Flowed thy transparent veil away,
Till 'neath each snow-white trembling fold

The Eden of thy bosom lay;

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

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And sheltered 'neath its dark-fringed lid

Till raised from thence in girlish glee, How modestly thy glance lay hid

From the fond glances bent on thee.

There are some hours that pass so soon,

Our spell-touched hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June,

Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend !
Oh! how I'll watch each flower that closes

Through autumn's soft and breezy reign,
Till summer-blooms restore the roses,

And merry June shall come again! But, ah! while float its sunny hours

O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea, Missing thy face among the flowers,

How my full heart will mourn for thee !

CHRISTMAS.

EY WILLIAM CROSWELL.

«The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--ISAIAH.

The thickly woven boughs they wreathe

Through every hallowed fane,
A soft reviving odour breathe

Of summer's gentle reign;
And rich the ray of mild green light

Whiclı, like an emerald's glow,
Comes struggling through the latticed height,

Upon the crowds below.

Oh let the streams of solemn thought,

Which in those temples rise,
From deeper sources spring than aught

Dependant on the skies.
Then though the summer's glow departs,

And winter's withering chill
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts

Shall be unchanging still.

THE DEPARTED.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

The departed ! the departed !

They visit us in dreams, And they glide above our memories,

Like shadows over streams ;But where the cheerful lights of home

In constant lustre burn, The departed—the departed

Can never more return !

The good, the brave, the beautiful!

How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music

Of the ever-tossing deep-
Or where the hurrying night-winds

Pale Winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead !

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THE DEPARTED.

I look around and feel the awe

Of one who walks alone-
Among the wrecks of former days,

In mournful ruin strown.
I start to hear the stirring sounds

Among the cypress trees;
For the voice of the departed

Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with

Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think Earth's minstrelsy

Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of Summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,

As their remembered words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles

Still on me sweetly fall !
Their tones of love I faintly hear

My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,

With their angel plumage on;
But my heart is very desolate,

To think that they are gone.

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