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They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;

A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder

Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.

Ex. 81. — THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

- Barry Cornwall.

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LEEP! - The ghostly winds are blowing!

No moon abroad, no star is glowing;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going!

We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star,
To the land where the sinless angels are !

I lost my heart to your heartless sire
('T was melted away by his looks of fire),
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,
All for the sake of a man's desire;

But now we 'll go

Where the waters flow,
And make us a bed where none shall know.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue!
What is there left for me to do

But fly — fly

From the cruel sky,
And hide in the deepest deeps, -- and die ?

Ex. 82. — IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. — Stoddard.

T

HERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pains,
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,

And it never comes again

We are stronger and are better

Under manhood's sterner reign ;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,

And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,

And we sigh for it in vain ;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,

But it never comes again.

Ex. 83.

HANG UP HIS HARP..

· Eliza Cook.

HIS
IS young bride stood beside his bed,

Her weeping watch to keep;
Hush ! hush ! he stirred not, was he dead,

Or did he only sleep?

His brow was calm, no change was there,

No sigh had filled his breath;
Oh! did he wear that smile so fair

In slumber or in death?

“ Reach down his harp,” she wildly cried,

“And if one spark remain,

Let him but hear 'Loch Erroch’s Side,'

He'll kindle at the strain.

“ That tune e'er held his soul in thrall;

It never breathed in vain ;
He'll waken as its echoes fall,

Or never wake again.”

The strings were swept. 'T was sad to hear

Sweet music floating there;
For every note called forth a tear

Of anguish and despair.

«See ! see !" she cried, “ the tune is o'er.

No opening eye, no breath ;
Hang up his harp; he'll wake no more;

He sleeps the sleep of death.”

Ex. 84.

MR. LINCOLN'S FAVORITE.

H! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain ;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

Ex. 85.

- THOU ART, O GOD. — Moore.

THOP

HOU art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine!

When day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, —
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord ! are thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ;
And

every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine !

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Ex. 87. — THE BLIND BOY. - Cibber.

OH Why w hamust ne er enjoy ?

H! say what is that thing called Light,

What are the blessings of the sight,

O, tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night ?

My day or night myself I make

Whene'er I sleep or play;

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