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Unutterable things,

And wrought, unweariedly, to cull
All that was wild and wonderful!

But even then, at times, would roll,
Unbidden and profoundly deep,
An awful silence o'er his soul

That hushed all other sense to sleep;
And then he saw, too near, the springs
And wild realities of things,

And only waked to weep

That man should be cut off from bliss,
And exiled to a world like this!

He loved I will not say how true

The faithless tongue perchance might lie ;—

He did not love as others do,

Nor cringe, nor flatter, whine nor sigh!
Look on his inmost heart, and trace,

What time may deepen, not efface,
So firmly wrought the die
That did her lovely image bear,

And warm and glowing stamp it there.

His hopes were crushed;-he strove to hide The past, by mingling with mankind; And left the maid he deified

Idols elsewhere to find.

Now, from Love's sanctuary hurled,
He roves an outcast through the world,
Nor evermore may find-

Wreck of the past his future stay-
The bonds that has been wrenched away!

He stands as stands a ruined Tower
Which Time in triumph desolates;
The ivy wreath that scorns his power,
A melancholy gloom creates.

What though it shine in light while yet
The summer suns-its fibres fret

The stone it decorates ;

So, smiles upon his pallid brow

But wring the ruined heart below!

B. B. W.

SUNSET THOUGHTS.

How beautiful the setting sun reposes o'er the wave!
Like Virtue, life's drear warfare done, descending to the grave;
Yet smiling with a brow of love, benignant, pure, and kind,
And blessing, ere she soars above the realms she leaves behind.

The cloudlets, edged with crimson light, veil o'er the blue serene,
While swift the legions of the night, are shadowing o'er the scene;
The sea-gull, with a wailing moan, up starting, turns to seek
Its lonely dwelling-place, upon the promontory's peak.

The heaving sea, the distant hill,—the waning sky,—the woods—
With melancholy musing fill the swelling heart that broods
Upon the light of other days, whose glories now are dull,
And on the visions Hope could raise, vacant, but beautiful!

Where are the bright illusions vain, that fancy boded forth!
Sunk to their silent caves again, Aurora of the North?

Oh! who would live those visions o'er, all brilliant though they

seem,

Since Earth is but a desert shore, and Life a weary dream!

Blackwood's Magazine.

A

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf,-
A voice in every rill ;-

A voice that speaketh every where,
In flood and fire, through earth and air!
A tongue that's never still!

"Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through every thing we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious Life and Death,
Time and Eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forests hoar,
When winds are piping loud.

I see Him, hear Him, every where,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall,
At the dead hour of night.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed;

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,

The sunshine, and the shade.

And yet (ungrateful that I am!)

I've turned in sullen mood

From all these things, whereof He said,

When the great whole was finished,

That they were 'very good.'

My sadness on the loveliest things
Fell like unwholesome dew ;-
The darkness that encompassed me,
The gloom I felt so palpably,
Mine own dark spirit threw.

Yet was he patient-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked
By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked;

And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart!—

Not always so I woke again,
To join Creation's rapturous strain,
'O Lord, how good Thou art!'

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,
And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispelled that miserable mood

Of darkness and of doubt.

Blackwood's Magazine.

FROM THE ARABIC.

Он! ask me not-oh! task me not

Her monument to see,

For doubly blest is there the rest,
Which never comes to me.

Oh! say not so-you may not so
All powerful Love inhume;

For in your breast, while life's a guest,
The heart's her real tomb.

C.

STANZAS

BY LORD BYRON.

THERE was a time I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same,
As still my soul hath been to thee!

And from that hour when first thy tongue Confessed a love which equalled mine,Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine,

None, none, hath sunk so deep as this,— To think how soon that love hath flown! Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone!

And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,—

Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes! my adored! yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been, dearly, solely, mine!

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