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And all was so still, and so fragrant around,
That the fragrance did seem from the stillness to

creep; It seem'd as if Nature repos'd on the ground, And the odour that rose was the breath of her

sleep.

The nightingale singing within her green cell, Made the woods sweetly mourn with the strains

of her ditty ; O, her notes sobb’d so true, 'twas like Grief when

she tells All the woes of her heart to the listening of Pity.

Nought was heard, when she paus'd, but the sound

of the rill, With its little lone music so silvery and meek, And the sweet lisping fall 'mid the landscape so

still, Seem'd as first infant essays of Silence to speak.

The moon, slowly rising behind the tall trees,
Her silver globe seem'd to suspend from the

pine'Twas the calm lamp of silence-the leaves felt no

breeze; And the world at that moment seem’d formid

but to shine.

All sooth'd and subdued in the midst of the scene, God of Nature! I cried, here Religion may

kneelThis temple thou fillest !-majestic, sereneOn this turf let me worship!--the Godhead I

feel.

THIS IS NOT LOVE.

ANONYMOUS. You ask. me why unseen I stray, And waste the solitary day; Why far my wandering path extends, From mirth, and books, and home, and friends; You tell me Love alone can bind Such fetters round the yielding mind :

Ah! no; this heart doth know

No joys like Love.

Far from the vulgar ken I fly,
To muse on Her averted eye;
I turn from friends, to think how she
Hath turn'd her alter'd cheek from me;
Mirth, books, and home-ah! how can these
The bosom's secret pang appease !

Go, go; I do not show

One sign of Love.

It is not love to chill and glow
Like wintry suns on beds of snow;
To chase the stifled sigh with fear;
To dry, before it fall, the tear;
And, last sad victory of pride,
In smiles this inward strife to hide !

Ah! no; this cannot flow

From any Love.

'Tis Love to loosen Rapture's rein,
And dream of all that might have been;
Give Fancy's eye unbounded scope,
Outstrip the fleetest wings of Hope ;

Still fail, and still the course pursue,
And deem each wish of Passion true.
If so, this heart would know

A genuine Love.

Mine is not Love: this breast hath bled
Till every finer sense is dead;
Mine is the craving bosom's void,
The joyless heart, and unenjoy'd,
Engross'd by selfishness alone,
As weeds o'ershade the desert stone.
Ah! no; full well I know

I cannot love.

VERSES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE.

ANONYMOUS.

I love to linger near the leafless wood,

Where cold and shrill the blasts of winter blow, Drifting the branches o'er the roaring flood,

And heaving wild yon mountain's robe of snow.

From the drear scene recedes the evening star,

And hides her fair head in the concave high, As if she fear'd, 'mid crashing Nature's war,

The threaten'd ruin of her shaking sky.

To yonder tower that frowns upon the steep,

At fall of eve, as village legends tell, Mysterious forms in shadowy terrors sweep,

To act the orgies of their native hell.

Oft does the trav’ller view the charmed beam

Of living fire flash on the haggard crew,

While the lone owl awakes his saddening scream

From the dark foliage of the haunted yew.

And on the brow of yonder cliff sublime, .

Worn by the footsteps of revolving years; Whose summit seems the altar-stone of Time,

His throne the Genius of Destruction rears.

For oft, when darkness shrouds the light of heaven,

And slumbers the pale moon on midnight's

breast,

On these wild rocks the tide-worn barks are

driven, And mangled forms sweep o'er the watery

waste.

Angels of peace! at this tremendous hour,

When louder still the swelling waters rave, From worlds more blest, one ray celestial pour,

To guide the sailor o'er th' unfathom'd wave.

Disarm the pallid spectre-train of Death,

That ride the dark wings of the howling storm, And bind the wild winds, whose blood-freezing

breath
Blasts faded Nature's cold convulsing form.

THE NOVEMBER GARDEN.

ANONYMOUS.

In Spring I visited this spot ;

A thousand herbs and flowers were blooming, And eglantine o'erbung this grot,

Mild April's balmy breeze perfuming :

The primrose open'd to the sun;

And languidly the daffodillies, Reclining bashful, had begun

To smile beneath the yellow lilies.

I came in Summer ;-shrub and flower,

Tho' chang'd in hue, were still before me : 'Twas cloudless noon, I sought the bower

That threw its welcome shadows o'er me; And as I rested on its seat,

Absorb'd in silent meditation, The bee was gathering liquid sweet

From the bosom of the soft carnation.

Again I come to view the scene,

Whose summer hues I well remember :'Tis stripp'd of pride, 'tis shorn of green,

Beneath the rude sway of November ! The melody of song is mute,

Except the red-breast's lonely singing; The trees have shed their leaves and fruit,

And weeds in every walk are springing.

The morn is cold; the sky is pale;

The winds no more are silence keeping; Like childhood at a mournful tale,"

O'er vanish'd bloom the clouds are weeping. I look upon the lonely sky

It wanes, as when a daughter's duty, Stay'd by a haughty father's eye,

Opposes love, and withers beauty.

All, all is chang'd, as the simoom

Had pass'd with withering magic over! No trace of beauty or of bloom

Can sense perceive, or eye discover ;

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