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It shoots athwart our visions, like the gleam
Of flitting sunshine o'er a desart shore,
Making the wilderness more dreary seem-
Oh! Love is all too like the shadows of a dream.


'Tis piety alone that can impart

A peace of mind that ne'er will fade away,
A bliss that calms the passions of the heart,
A hope that soothes us even in decay,
Inspires the thought, and elevates the lay;
'Tis this that gives a glory to that hour
When death, relentless, seizes on his prey,

Then yet may pleasure dwell in earthly bower,

Though man buds, blooms, and withers like a summer


William Anderson.



Come to the sun-set tree!

The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done..

The twilight-star to heaven,

And the summer-dew to flowers, And rest to us is given,

By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,

And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the sun-set tree!

The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done..

Yes-tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round,

And the gale that fans our brows..

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Here's a health to thee, Mary,

Here's a health to thee;

The drinkers are gone,

And I am alone,

To think of home and thee, Mary.

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And many as frank and free,

And a few as fair;

But the summer air

Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,

And thy dimmed and gentle eye;

And I've called on thy name
When the night winds came,
And heard my heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,
And I'll be true to thee,

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.

Barry Cornwall.


Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?-The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ;
Death rides upon the sulphury siroc,

Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,'
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And that scorcheth all it glares upon;


Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon

Flashing afar, and at his iron feet

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Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;

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