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Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought ;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—

In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

0, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds,—as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings ;

And whispers, in its song,
“Where hast thou stayed so long !”



A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,

I wander through the world ; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent

And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life

A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,—away!

Too long did it remain !
So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought ;

Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o’er,

I bathe mine eyes and see ; And wander through the world once more,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,

Left me that vision mild ;
The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,

Pale grows the evening-red ;
And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.



The sun is bright,—the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new ;—the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;

There are no birds in last year's nest !

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight ! And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For 0! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest ; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest !


The dar is ecli, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary:
The vine still clings to the maldering wil
Bit at erery sust the dead leares fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

Mr He is all, and dark, and dreary:
It rains and the wind is nerer wearī:
My thoughts still ciing to the mouldering Past,
Bat the hopes of routh fall thick in the biast,

And the dars are dark and dreary.

Be start sad heart and cease repining:
Behind the clouds is the sun st.) shining:
Tir fate is the common fate of all,
Isto each Eife some rain rust fal,

Sane dars must be dark and dreart.

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I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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