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Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:
Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doomed to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;
And robbed of all its energy thy mind,
Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,
Abject of thought, the victim of distress,
To wander in the world's wide wilderness.
Poor Outcast, sleep in peace! the wintry storm
TO A YOUNG MAN,
Who considered the perfection of human nature as consisting in the
vigour and indulgence of the more boisterous passions.
THIS is not pleasure! can'st thou look within
For Solitude's grave moment? Canst thou tell
Oh have these things within thee aught besides
Human remembrance? Have they passion, love?
Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts
Add images of purity and peace?
It is not so, cannot be so, to those
Who in the revels of the midnight cupf
Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gift,
God's supreme gift, the motion, and the^rf,
That stirs, and warms the faculty of thought!
If thou defile thyself, that joy minute,
Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet miid,
Must never be thy portion! Thou hast lost
That most companiable and awful sense,
That sense which tells us of a Ge» in Heaven
And beauty on the earth: that sense which lends
A voice to silence^ and to vacancy
A multitude of shapes and hr.es of life!
Go then relinquish pleasure, wonld'ot thou know
The throb of happiness, relinquish wine,
And greedy lust, and greedier iuiE^iiiys
Of what may constitute the bliss of man!
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
And all that's best of dark and bright
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
A mind at peace with all below,
THE EVE OF DEATH.
H. K. White.
SILENCE of Death—portentous calm,
Those airy forms that yonder fly,
That the hour of fate is nigh.
The Spirit of battles rear his crest!
His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast
O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep,
No softly ruffling zephyrs fly;
For the hour of battle is nigh.
But a creeping stillness reigns around;
On the ear does unwelcomely sound.
I know, I know, what this silence means,
I know what the raven saith—
For this is the eve of death.
Behold, how along the twilight air
The shades of our fathers glide!
And Colma with grey side.
Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;
Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! 'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood!
He will never set more to the brave;
For to-morrow he hies to the grave.
LIVING WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD.
MYSTERY of God! thou brave and beauteous world,