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Fair, gentle, as when first I sued

Ye

seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As when beneath Arbigland tree

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes

Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose;

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;

When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver, than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower;
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree ;
And sweeter still to choose and twine

A garland for these locks of thine,——-
A song-wreath which might grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,—
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower:
O, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And high resolve, and purpose meek

Speak of thee more than words can speak;

I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT.
Born, 1784; Died, 1859.

TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down and think

Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears;

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press,
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go,

My bird, when prison-bound,

My hand-in-hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say,

"He has departed;

His voice-his face is gone;"

To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on ;

Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe,

Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix'd and sleeping!
This silence too the while-

Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering as a smile :

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of Cherubim,

Who say,

"We've finish'd here."

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Born, 1785; Died, 1806.

WHAT art Thou, MIGHTY ONE? and where Thy seat!
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And Thou dost bear within Thine awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;
Stern on Thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead

noon,

Or on the red wing of the fierce monsoon
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost Thou repose? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?

Vain thought! the confines of His throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

JOHN WILSON.

Born, 1785; Died, 1854.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

WHEN nature feels the solemn hour is come
That parts the spirit from her mortal clay,
May that hour find me in my weeping home,
'Mid the blest stillness of a Sabbath-day!

May none I deeply love be then away;

For through my heart the hush'd though sobbing breath

Of natural grief a holy calm will send ;

With sighs from earth will heavenly voices blend, Till, as on seraph fair, I smile on death,

Who comes in peace, like an expected friend.
Dipt in celestial hues the wings of Love

Will o'er my soul a gracious shade extend;
While, as if air were sun, gleams from above
The day with God, the Sabbath without end !*

GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.

Born, 1788; Died, 1824.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S ARMY.

THE' Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

* Wilson died on Sunday, the 2d of April, 1854.

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