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TO AN OLD MAN.

Give me the stars, give me the skies,
Give me the heavens' remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise
Of desolation and despair.

Those native fires, that warmed the mind,
Now languid grown, too dimly glow;
Joy has to grief the heart resigned,
And love, itself, is changed to wo.

The joys of wine are all you boast,—
These, for a moment, damp your pain;
The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost-
And darkness clouds the soul again.

Then seek no more for bliss below,
Where real bliss can ne'er be found;
Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow
And fairer flowers bedeck the ground;

Where plants of life the plains invest,
And green eternal crowns the year:
The little god, that warms the breast,
Is weary of his mansion here.

Like Phosphor, sent before the day,
His height meridian to regain,

DE PROFUNDIS.

The dawn arrives he must not stay
To shiver on a frozen plain.

Life's journey past, for fate prepare,—

Jove made us mortal-his we are,
To Jove, be all our cares resigned.

DE PROFUNDIS.

BY WILLIAM CROSWELL.

" There may be a cloud without a rainbow, but there cannot be a rainbow without a cloud."

My soul were dark
But for the golden light and rainbow hue
That, sweeping Heaven with their triumphal arc,

Break on the view.

Enough to feel
That God indeed is good ! enough to know
Without the gloomy clouds he could reveal

No beauteous bow.

SUMMER MIDNIGHT.

BY JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.

The breeze of night has sunk to rest,
Upon the river's tranquil breast;
And every bird has sought her nest,

Where silent is her minstrelsy ;
The queen of heaven is sailing high,
A pale bark on the azure sky,
Where not a breath is heard to sigh-

So deep the soft tranquillity.

Forgotten now the heat of day
That on the burning waters lay,
The noon of night her mantle gray

Spreads, for the sun's high blazonry;
But glittering in that gentle night
There gleams a line of silvery light,
As tremulous on the shores of white

It hovers sweet and playfully.

SUMMER MIDNIGHT.

At peace the distant shallop rides;
Not as when dashing o'er her sides
The roaring bay's unruly tides

Were beating round her gloriously;
But every sail is furld and still :
Silent the seaman's whistle shrill,
While dreamy slumbers seem to thrill

With parted hours of ecstasy.

Stars of the many-spangled heaven!
Faintly this night your beams are given,
Though proudly where your hosts are driven

Ye rear your dazzling galaxy ;
Since far and wide a softer hue
Is spread across the plains of blue,
Where in bright chorus, ever true,

For ever swells your harmony.

O for some sadly dying note
Upon this silent hour to float,
Where from the bustling world remote

The lyre might wake its melody;
One feeble strain is all can swell
From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell

That slumbers not its minstrelsy.

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THERE IS AN HOUR of deep repose
That yet upon my heart shall close,
When all that nature dreads and knows

Shall burst upon me wondrously;
O may I then awake for ever
My heart to rapture's high endeavour, ·
And as from earth's vain scene I sever,

Be lost in Immortality!

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