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I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear

From distant hills the Sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear,

Think on me then I loved it well!

Forget me not around


hearth, When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze; For dear hath been its evening mirth

To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh ! when music's voice is heard

To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,

Think of me then! I go, I go !


“No more of talk where God or angel guest,
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast.”


ARE ye for ever to your skies departed ?

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more ? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore! Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye-our faded earth beholds



Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,

Man wander'd from his Paradise away ; Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,

Came down, high guests! in many a later day, And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,

Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, That saw your hosts ascending and descending

On those bright steps between the earth and sky: Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, And worshipp'd awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar's* brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; Along the stream the living chariot bearing,

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;

Ezekiel, chap. x.

And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,

Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,

Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son ? - Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one moretask was Yours! your heavenly dwelling

Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,

That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone. Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over,

When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met; Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,

up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,

Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill; One, One is near—a spirit holier still !

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Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee

In ancient days the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant ! is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song's full notes once peal'd around,

But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains

Around the victor's tent :
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene

Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past ; Where, through the halls of glory gone,

Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair ; Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb ! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,

Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Hath naught of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry!
And, rear'd midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine

To wave where banners waved of yore, O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,

Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down

Those eyries of a vanish'd race-
Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art !—thy foliage bright

Uạchanged the mountain storm can brave ; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,

Or deck the humblest grave !

'Tis still the same! Where'er we tread,

The wrecks of human power we see
The marvels of all ages fled

Left to decay and thee !
And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength ;
Days pass—thou ivy never sere ! *

And all is thine at length !

*“ Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”


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