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Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,

Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;

Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart,

Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart,

To see the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,

Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,

Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,

Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; And, when the beating billows round him roar,

Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,

In many a plantain-forest, waving wide; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,

And giant palms o’er-arch the golden tide.
But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend !
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
– 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand !

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled ; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world!

THE SPECTACLES.
A certain artist (I forget his name)
Had got for making Spectacles a fame,
Or Helps to Read -as when the first were sold
Was writ, upon his glaring sign, in gold; .

And, for all uses to be had from glass, His were allowed, by readers, to surpass. There came a man into his shop one day" Are you the spectacle-contriver, pray ?” “ Yes, sir," said he, “I can, in that affair, “ Contrive to please you, if you want a pair.” “ Can you ?--pray do then.”-So, at first, he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose ; And book produced, to see how they would fit; Asked how he liked them." Like them? not a bit.” " Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try, “ These, in my hand, will better suit your eye.” “ No, but they don't.”—“Well, come, sir, if you please, “ Here is another sort, we'll even try these ; “ Still somewhat more they magnify the letter :

Now, sir?”“Why now I'm not a bit the better." “No! here, take these, which magnify still more; “ How do they fit ?" " Like all the rest before.”

In short, they tried a whole assortment through, But all in vain, for none of them would do : The operator, much surprised to find So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind ; “What sort of eyes can you have got ?” said he ; “Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see.”' “ Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball — . “ Pray, let me ask you-can you read at all ?” “ No, you great blockhead! if I could, what need Of paying you for any helps to read ?” And so he left the maker in a heat, Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.

THE LAST MAN.
All wordly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

i Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime !

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,--the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ;
And ships were drifting with the dead,
" To shores were all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,

As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.' What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will;
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death, Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost !

This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,–

And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou sawest the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God !

THE VOICE OF SPRING. I come, I come ! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, And the ancient graves, and the faling fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. -But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

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