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SPENSERIAN.

I SAW a horrid thing of many names,

And many shapes. Some call'd it wealth, some

power,

Some grandeur. From its heart it shot black flames, That scorch'd the souls of millions, hour by hour; And its proud eyes rain'd everywhere a shower Of hopeless life, and helpless misery; For, spoused to fraud, destruction was its dower! But its cold brightness could not hide from me The parent base of crime, the nurse of poverty!

SPENSERIAN.

THE marble forms of mortals half divine

Yield silently the impress grand of mind

To time and ruin: long the weltering brine,

With heaven's red bolt and reinless blast combined,

Assails the rock in vain: even in the wind,

Slow burns the mighty oak, the forest-king,

Majestic still so, lofty souls, declined

:

From their high deeds, a careless mantle fling

O'er cureless wounds, and smile-though life is

withering.

SPENSERIAN.

A TEAR for thee? Not, Byron, if thy name Shall be a watchword to unchain the slave, Rolling o'er tyrants' hearts like thundering flame, And kindling, as with soul, th' embattled wave; Till conquering Freedom, on their briny grave, Find Greeks like those who died at Salamis. Arise, and equal them, ye modern brave! Let past and future ages yield to this! And be your names a spell, as Byron's was and is.

SPENSERIAN.

A TEAR for Byron? Weakness mourns the weak, And Beauty dies in weeping Love's embrace, And common frailties common sorrows seek. But Scourger of the scourgers of thy race! Thou aw'st me so, that to thy resting-place I bring stern feelings, not unmix'd with fear. Standing before the fear'd of all the base, I, who oft wept thee, cannot weep thee here, Bard of the broken heart, high soul, and burning tear!

COME AND GONE.

THE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow

Shine cold, and pale, and blue,

While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow
Casts on the iced oak's trunk and grey rock's brow
A ruddy hue.

The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair,
Like happy groom and bride,

With azured green, and emerald-orange glare,
Gilding the icicles from branches bare,
Lie side by side.

The door is open, and the fire burns bright,

And Hannah, at the door

Stands-through the clear, cold, moon'd, and starry

night,

Gazing intently towards the scarce-seen height,

O'er the white moor.

"Tis Christmas eve! and, from the distant town, Her pale apprenticed son

Will to his heart-sick mother hasten down,

And snatch his hour of annual transport-flown

Ere well begun.

The Holy Book unread upon his knee,

Old Alfred watcheth calm;

Till Edwin comes, no solemn prayer prays he;
Till Edwin comes, the text he cannot see,
Nor chant the psalm.

And comes he not? Yea, from the wind-swept hill The cottage-fire he sees;

While of the past remembrance drinks her fill, Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the unfrozen rill Shine through green trees.

In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er the moor; In thought, the sheep-boy's call;

In thought, he meets his mother at the door; In thought, he hears his father, old and poor, "Thank God for all."

His sister he beholds, who died when he,
In London bound, wept o'er

Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see
Poor Edwin yet again :-he ne'er will be
Her playmate more!

No more with her will hear the bittern boom

At evening's dewy close!

No more with her will wander where the broom

Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom
And budding rose !

Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control,

Recalls us when we roam!

In living light it bids the dimmed eye roll,
And gives a dove's wing to the fainting soul,
And bears it home.

Home ! that sweet word hath turn'd his pale lip red,
Relumed his fireless eye;

Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread;
The early rose that seem'd for ever dead,
Returns to die.

Home! home!-Behold the cottage of the moor,
That hears the sheep-boy's call!

And Hannah meets him at the open door
With faint fond scream; and Alfred, old and poor,
"Thanks God for all!"

His lip is on his mother's; to her breast

She clasps him, heart to heart;

His hands between his father's hands are press'd;
They sob with joy, caressing and caress'd:

How soon to part!

Why should they know that thou so soon, O Death!
Wilt pluck him, like a weed?

Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath?
Why dread the hectic flower, which blossometh

That worms may feed?

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