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Do I not hear his thunder roll-
The roar that ne'er is still?

'Tis mute as death!—but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.

What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone!

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pigmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky,

They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.
Oh, God of marvels! who can tell
What myriad living things

On these grey stones unseen may dwell!
What nations, with their kings!
I feel no shock, I hear no groan
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-
A hundred ruin'd realms !

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impell'd by woe or whim,

May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see-
A tiny world to him!

Lo! while he pauses, and admires
The works of nature's might,

Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night!

Oh, God of terrors! what are we?—
Poor insects, spark'd with thought!
Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee,
Could smite us into nought!

But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,
And mix it with the deep,

Safe in the hollow of thine hand
Thy little ones would sleep.

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM.

BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more,
White blossom of the sloe!

Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
For well thou know'st the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud!

But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doomed untimely flowers
In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chaunt hymns to God,

The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold,
Smiles o'er the well in summer cold,
And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,

To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretels an eve of tears,

A sunbeam on the saddened lawn
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Will see no leaf of mine;

Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering Where no suns shine.

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime !
But, thine before my time, oh, death!
I go where no flow'r blossometh,
Before my time.

Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloomed; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother, and to die-
To perish in my bloom!
Is this my sad, brief history!—
A tear dropped from a mother's eye
Into the tomb.

He lived and loved-will sorrow say——
By early sorrow tried ;

He smiled, he sighed, he past away:

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His life was but an April day,-
He loved, and died!

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep:
They whisper round me-what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

O, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true;

I ever trembled in my bliss:
Now there are farewells in a kiss,-
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade,

;

Where Don reflects the skies
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood played,
Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel :

But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,
Where late we stood and wept ;
For I was stricken when he died,—
I felt the arrow as he sighed
His last, and slept.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the poor,

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,

The tyrant, and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave!

Sin met thy brother every where !

And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care,

He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

He fear'd to scorn or hate;

But, honouring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great.

He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes

The poor man's little more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes

From plunder'd labour's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

THY fruit full well the school-boy knows, Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bid'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

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