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And ere I could reply to him, he pulled and sped the dart, “You’ve hit me, little wretch,” I cried, “I feel it through my heart.”

“Compose yourself, dear ma'am,” said he, “I’ll hie me to my rest;”

“And I,” I said, “will pour my woes into kind Friendship's breast :”

Then quick to Friendship's couch I flew to tell him my despair,

But ah! I found that he had fled, and Love alone was there.

SPIRIT OF BIE A UT Y.
B Y R. D. A. W. E. S.

THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight;
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and round her flings
A shower of light from her crimson wings;
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstacy.

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet,
She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip,
As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

252 S PIRIT OF B E AUT Y.

At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy,
And round the skirts of their deepened fold,
She paints a border of purple and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has passed away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power,
She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Then wheeling her flight through the gladdened air,
The Spirit of Beauty is every where.

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“She flung her white arms around him—Thou art all That this poor heart can cling to.” I could have stemmed misfortune's tide, And borne the rich one's sneer, Have braved the haughty glance of pride, Nor shed a single tear. I could have smiled on every blow From life’s full quiver thrown, While I might gaze on thee, and know I should not be “alone.”

I could—I think I could have brooked,
E’en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been “alone.”

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But thus to see, from day to day,
Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I’ll be “alone;”

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
“Earth may not claim thee longer;”
Nay, dearest, 'tis too much—this heart
Must break when thou art gone;
It must not be; we may not part;
I could not live “alone !”

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