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Washing of the lonely seas,
Day and night and day go by
And day and night and day go.by-
As day and night and day go by,
As day and night and day go by,
A SPANISH ANECDOTE.
It was a holy usage to record
Upon each refectory's side or end
That meanest appetites might upward tend.
Rich with the gifts and monuments of kings, Hung such a picture, said by some to reign
The sov'ran glory of those wondrous things. A painter of far fame, in deep delight,
Dwelt on each beauty he so well discern'd; While, in low tones, a gray Geronomite
This answer to his ecstasy return'd. Stranger ! I have received my daily meal
In this good company now three-score years ; And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel
How time these lifeless images endears. Lifeless ! ah, no, while in mine heart are stored
Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, Familiar places vacant round our board,
And still that silent supper lasting on !
While I review my youth, what I was then,
What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all,-
THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN.
It is the midnight hour :-the beauteous sea,
children of her own,
THE EVENING CLOUD.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest : While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. Wilson.
TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
My little patient boy ;
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down and think
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
I will not think of now;
Have wasted with dry brow;
And pat my stooping head,
The tears are in their bed.
When life and hope were new ;
Thy sister, father, too;
My bird when prison-bound,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
“ His voice-his face—'tis gone!”
Yet feel we must bear on;
To whisper of such woe,
That it will not be so.
This silence, too, the while
Seems whispering as a smile :
Seems going by one's ear,
MAY MORNING AT RAVENNA,
The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May
And there's a crystal clearness all about ; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze, The smoke goes dancing from the cottage-trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ; And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and seaBreathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly. 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing; The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town ; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. Already in the streets the stir grows loud Of expectation and a bustling crowd. With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends; Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite, And shouts from mere exuberance of delight; And armed bands, making important way, Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday, And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run, And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.
FUNERAL OF THE LOVERS IN
A voice of chanting rose; and as it spread,
From the morrow
AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
PRINTED BY ROBSON, LEVBY, AND FRANKLYN,
Great New Street and Better Lane.