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They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
A dreary sea now flows between,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
Ex. 81. — THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.
- Barry Cornwall.
LEEP! - The ghostly winds are blowing!
No moon abroad, no star is glowing;
We are going afar,
Beyond moon or star,
I lost my heart to your heartless sire
But now we 'll go
Where the waters flow,
The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
But fly — fly
From the cruel sky,
Ex. 82. — IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. — Stoddard.
HERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pains,
And it never comes again
We are stronger and are better
Under manhood's sterner reign ;
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain ;
But it never comes again.
HANG UP HIS HARP..
· Eliza Cook.
Her weeping watch to keep;
Or did he only sleep?
His brow was calm, no change was there,
No sigh had filled his breath;
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 ;
Or never wake again.”
The strings were swept. 'T was sad to hear
Sweet music floating there;
Of anguish and despair.
«See ! see !" she cried, “ the tune is o'er.
No opening eye, no breath ;
He sleeps the sleep of death.”
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,
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
- THOU ART, O GOD. — Moore.
HOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Are but reflections caught from thee.
When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
Through golden vistas into heaven,
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, —
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ;
every flower the summer wreathes
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;