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He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down,
And rose in careless pride,
The boat from side to side ;
They danced a childish round,
As on the firmest ground.
One poise too much! he headlong fell, —
She, stretching out to save
Within that glittering grave;
Of music-mingled laughter;
Were there the instant after.
Her weaker head above the flood,
That quick engulfed the strong,
Waved pitifully long;
Athwart the tide to fade;
But never one to save.
Yet not alas! if Heaven revered
The freshly spoken vow, And willed that what was then made one
Should not be sundered now; If she was spared, by that sharp stroke,
Love's most unnatural doom, The future lorn and unconsoled,
The unavoided tomb!
But weep, ye very rocks, for those,
Who, on their native shore,
That shall arrive no more!
Few words are all the need ; —
The course of useless speed !
The presence of the cold, dead wood,
The single mark and sign
The handiwork divine !
That in the depth would linger,
Upon that faithful finger!
And if in life there lie the seed
Of real enduring being,
To perish unforeseeing,
Now time can wither never,
Is flowering fresh forever.
AUTUMN MUSINGS. — Burns,
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark, winding rill : How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As autumn to winter resigns the pale year!
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
How long I have lived, - but how much lived in vain,
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gained; And downward, how weakened, how darkened, how
pained! Life is not worth having, with all it can give; For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. -Wastell.*
LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
* Born about 1565.
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Like to the bubble in the brook,
SENSIBILITY. - Burns.
SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
Thou hast also known too well.
Fairest flower! behold the lily
Blooming in the sunny ray;
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys; Hapless bird ! a prey the surest
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
TO BLOSSOMS. – Terrick.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Your date is not so past,
Then go at last.
What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, a while, they glide
Into the grave.