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As soft the woodland songs are swelling

A choral anthem on thine ear

Muse for that hour to thought is dear, And then its flight remembrance wings

To bypast things.

Oft

To me through every season dearest,

In every scene, by day, by night, Thou present to my mind appearest,

A quenchless star for ever bright;

My solitary sole delight, Alone in wood, by shore, at sea,

I think of thee.

And

Wit

THE DEAD FRIEND.

SOUTHEY

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear;
Feed not on thoughts so loathly, horrible-

The Spirit is not there
That kindled that dead eye,
That throbb’d in that cold heart,
That in that motionless hand
Has met thy friendly grasp ;
The Spirit is not there !

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave;
Earth, air, and water's minist'ring particles

Now to the elements
Resolv'd, their uses done!

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Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy Friend belov’d

The Spirit is not there!
Often together have we talk'd of death

How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the cherubim,
To view the depths of Heaven !

O!thou hast first Begun the travel of Eternity

I gaze amid the stars,

And think that thou art there, Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee And we have often said how sweet it were, With unseen ministry of angel power,

To watch the friends we lov’d

We did not err;
Sure I have felt thy presence, thou hast given

A birth to holy thought,
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure-

We did not err;

Our best affections here,
They are not like the toys of infancy-

The soul outgrows them not,
We do not cast them off:

Oh, if it could be so,
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die !

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy Friend belov'd!
But in the lonely hour,

But in the ev'ning walk,
Think that he companies thy solitude ;

Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse;
And tho' Remembrance wake a tear,

There will be joy in grief.

FROM THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE.

WILSON.

Frankfort and Wilmot, two naval officers.
Wil. It is the Sabbath-day-the day of rest.

Frank. O unrejoicing Sabbath! not of yore
Did thy sweet ev’nings die along the Thames
Thus silently! now every sail is furl'd,
The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand,
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty,
River of a desert lately Gill'd with joy!
O’er all that mighty wilderness of stone
The air is clear and cloudless as at sea
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead,
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends
Above the stillness of the towers and spires.
How idly hangs that arch magnificent
Across the idle river! Not a speck
Is seen to move along it. There it hangs,
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky.

Here, on this very spot where now we rest,
Upon the morning I last sail'd from England,
My mother put her arms about my neck,
And in a solemn voice, unchok'd with tears,
Said, “ Son! a last farewell!” That solemn voice,
Amid the ocean's roaring solitude,
Oft pass'd across my soul, and I have heard it

Steal in sad music from the sunny calm.
Upon our homeward voyage, when we spoke
The ship that told us of the Piague, I knew
That the trumpet's voice would send into our souls
Some dismal tidings; for I saw her sails
Black in the distance, Ainging off with scorn
A shower of radiance from the blessed sun,
As if her crew would not be comforted. .
[ A miserable-looking old man has come up to

them, with an infant in his arms.] Old Man.-Know ye what you will meet with

in the city ? Together will ye walk through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church. You will hear nothing but the brown-red grass Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small voice Of that vain bauble, idly-counting time, Will speak a solemn language in the desert : Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, Still threat’ning thunder, lower with grim delight, As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there, Dark’ning the city with the shadows of death. *

* * * Stand aloof, And let the Pest's triumphal chariot Have open way, advancing to the tomb. See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry Of earthly kings ! A miserable cart Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies ! And onwards urg'd by a wan meagre wretch, Doom'd never to return from the foul pit, Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. Would you look in? Grey hairs and golden tresses, Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for years;

And many a rosy visage smiling still ;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs; there be they all
Embrac'd in ghastliness! But look not long,
For haply, ’mid the faces glimm’ring there,
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white

hand, Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.

FROM ANSTER FAIR.

TENNANT

The Morning of the Fair described.
I wish I had a cottage snug and neat
· Upon the top of many-fountain's Ide,
That I might thence in holy fervour greet

The bright-gown’d Morning tripping up her side; And when the low Sun's glory-buskin'd feet

Walk on the blue wave of th' Ægean tide, 0, I would kneel me down, and worship there The God who garnish'd out a world so bright and

fair!

The saffron-elbow'd Morning up the slope

Of heav'n canaries in her jewell’d shoes, And throws o’er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top

Her golden apron dripping kindly dews; And never, since she first began to hop

Up heav'n's blue causeway, of her beams pro

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