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WHERE SHALL WE MAKE HER GRAVE?

MRS, HEMANS.

WHERE shall we make her grave ?
Oh! where the wild flowers wave

In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard

There-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-
Now may sleep minister

Balm for each ill :
Low on sweet Nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,

Deep, deep and still !

Murmur glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,

Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,

Storms beat no more !

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,

Plays the soft wind;
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,

Gracious and kind!

Therefore let song and dew
Thence in the heart renew

Life's vernal glow !
And o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild-flowers wave,
Make me her mossy grave,

In the free air !
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard

There-lay her there!

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

MOORE.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger

Once more she sings me her flattering strain ; But hush, gentle siren, for, ah, there's less danger

In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long in sorrow too deep for repiving,

Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain : And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining

O’er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly, then, ye visions, that hope would shed o'er mem

Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest Now lies, not in dreaming of bliss that's before me, But, ah, in forgetting how once I was blest !

VERY GOOD COMPANY.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Sing!-Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings

Ah, who is this lady fine?
The VINE, boys, the VINE!
The mother of mighty Wine.

A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree;
And sometimes very good company.

Drink!-Who drinks
To her who blusheth, and never thinks

Ah, who is this maid of thine ?
The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE !
0, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine

For better is she

Than vine can be,
And very, very good company

Dream !-Who dreams
Of the god who governs a thousand streams ?

Ah, who is this spirit fine ?
'Tis Wine, boys, WINE!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,
And best of all, good company

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

WILSON,

ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death ;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ;
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream ?

A human shape I feel thou art,
I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love,
Thoughts from the living world intrude
E’en on her deepest solitude :
But, lovely child i thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!

And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home would'st live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, “ this babe is mine!"
In time thou would'st become the same
As their own child, -all but the name!

How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard,
Words that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast !
And for thy smile !-thy lip, cheek, brow,
E'en while I gaze, are kindling now.

I called thee duteous ; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to Nature, and to Love !
To God 1-for thou, a harmless child,
Hast kept his temple undefiled :
To Naturel--for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries :

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