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Whither, ʼmidst falling dew,
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
On the chased ocean-side ?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned
Though the dark night is pear.
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone! the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply bath sunk ihe lesson thou hast given
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the sweet dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
A King and a Father to place on his throne !
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my suffering, - thus wretched, forlorn!
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial !
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return !
NOURMAHAL.—Moore. There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, Shining on-shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this, That to young Nourmabal gave such magic of bliss ; But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here, and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the check to the eyes; Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of heaven in his dreams! When pensive, it seeni'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face;
CIV. CATHARINA.- Addressed to Miss Stapleton.-Cowper.
She came-she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again;
And seems to have risen in vain.
(So vanishes pleasure alas !)
That will not so suddenly pass.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the Nightingale warbling nigh.
And much was she charmed with a tone
Less sweet to Maria and me,
And gave them a grace so divine,
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteemed
The work of my fancy the more,
So tuneful a poet before.
In number the days of the year,
Would feel herself happier here ; For the close woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well judging taste from above, Then, whether embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love; The achievments of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;
With little to hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE OLD MAN.—Mrs. Sigourney.
Ye children young and gay?
Will bleach as white as they.
Who o'er my pillow hung,
And taught my faltering tongue.
Would bow my infant knee,
And kneeling, pray for me.
I sought my mother's bed,
And told me she was dead.
To lay it by her side,
For no fond voice replied.
And said a lonely prayer,
As if that hand were there.