Imatges de pÓgina
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Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain:
Hope was awakened as for home he sailed,
But quickly sank, and never more prevailed.

He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message-"Thomas, I must die. "Would I could see my Sally, and could rest "My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, "And gazing go !-if not, this trifle take, "And say, till death I wore it for her sake. "Yes! I must die-Blow on, sweet breeze, blow on! "Give me one look, before my life be gone!

"Oh! give me that, and let me not despair-
"One last fond look! And now, repeat the prayer.”

He had his wish, had more—
-I will not paint
The lovers' meeting-She beheld him faint :
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die!" and hope for ever fled !

Still long she nursed him-tender thoughts mean time
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer:
Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,
Yet said not so, "Perhaps he will not sink :"

A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard.
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few ;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest :"
"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love—and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved-an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty, and the dead;

She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again; and thus her hours employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirits' pain
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain.
All have their tasks and trials! Thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead! but to the living, live!

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods;

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rushed to battle, fought, and died;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent—

"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
"You would abhor to do me wrong,
"As much as I to spoil your song;
"For 'twas the self-same Power divine,
"Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
"That you with music, I with light,
"Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;

That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of

grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.

FAREWELL TO ANNA'S GRAVE.

I WISH I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here ;-
And every hour affection cries,
Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could: for when she died

I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unloved.

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