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Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited ;

Now the lamp of hope is lighted,
Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd and wavering, and benighted,

Midst my sighs and tears.
Charms you call your dearest blessing, ,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing-

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,

Not with age, but woe.

(By the same.)

"Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art;
But'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherisha,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.
What though untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th’ undoubting heart that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.
Absence! is not the soul torn by it,
From more than light, or life, or breath?
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not the quiet-
The pain without the peace of death,


Give glory to God in the highest, give praise,
Ye noble, ye mighty, with joyful accord;
All-wise are his counsels, all-perfect his ways,
In the beauty of holiness worship the Lord.
The voice of the Lord on the ocean is known,
The God of eternity thundereth abroad ;
The voice of the Lord, from the depth of his throne,
Is terror and power ;-all nature is awed.


At the voice of the Lord, the cedars are bow'd,
And towers from their base into ruin are hurl'd;
The voice of the Lord, from the dark-bosom'd cloud,
Dissevers the lightning in flames o'er the world,
See Lebanon bound like the kid on his rocks,
And wild as the unicorn Sirion appear;
The wilderness quakes with the resonant shocks,
The hinds cast their young in the travail of fear.
The voice of the Lord, through the calm of the wood,
Awaker's its echoes, strikes light through its caves ;
The Lord sitteth King on the turbulent flood,
The winds are his servants,-his servants the waves.
The Lord is the strength of his people; the Lord
Gives health to his people, and peace evermore;
Then throng to his temple, his glory record,

But Oh! when He speaketh, in silence adore.
Sheffield, Nov. 1821.


(By Thomas Campbell, Esq.)

O, THOU! by whose expressive art,

Her perfect image nature sees,
In union with the graces, start,

And sweeter by reflection please!
In whose creative hand the hues,

Stol'n from yon orient rainbow shine,
I bless thee, Promethean Muse ;

And hail thee brightest of the Nine.
Possessing more than mortal power;

Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
Whose lineage iu a raptured hour,

From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung:
Does Hope her high possession meet?

Is Joy triumphant, sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,

When all we love is all our own.
But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear;

Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart :
Then for a beam of joy to light,

Io memory's sad and wakeful eye;
Or banish from the noon of night,
Her dreams of deeper agony,



Shall song its witching cadence roll,

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat ?
What visions rise to charm, to welt!

The lost, the loved, the dead are near;
Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt,

And cease that silence too severe!
But thou serenely silent art,

By heaven and love both taught to lend,
A milder solace to the heart;

The sacred image of a friend;
All is not lost if yet possest

For me that sweet memorial shine,
If close and closer to my breast,

I hold the image all divine :
Or gazing thro' luxurious tears,

Melt over the departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half

With life, and speech, and spirit warm;
She looks, she lives, this transient hour

Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or Glory's starry diadem.
Yes, Genias, yes! thy mimic aid,

A treasure to my soul bas given,
When Beauty's canonized shade

Smiles thro’ the sainted hues of heaven.
No spectre form of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening tints restore ;
For thou canst give us back the dead,

Even in the loveliest form she wore.
Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse,

Whoșe hand her polished grace redeems;
Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems.
From Love began thy high descent;

And lovers charmed with gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee, mutely eloquent,

And hail thee brightest of the NINE.

The following verses were addressed by Lord Byron to Mr. Thomas

Moore, and are in circulation among a few of Mr. Moore's select friends. Their authenticity is undoubted.

My boat is on the shore,

bark is on the sea;
But ere I go,

Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.


Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,

And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for


Tho' the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on;

Tho' a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasped on the brink,

Ere my fainting spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.


(By T. Moore, Esq.) AIR—“ Staca an Mharaga.(The Market-stake.)

The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking,

Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,

And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries-resting nevers
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing

From thee, thee, only tbee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,

Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.


(By the same.)
AIR.—The Humming of the Ban.
SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark-

Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say

“Though death beneath our smile may be
Less cold we are, less false than they,

Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on---through endless space

Through calm-through tempest---stop no more:
The stormiest sea 's a resting-place

To him who leaves such bearts on shore,
Or,-if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then,

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(An original Poem by James Edmeston)


Sweet is the evening roundelay,

As past the western breeze is sighing:
And PHILOMELA mourns the day,

All time the golden hours are dying:
Sweet is the bower of ERMENGARDE,

Latticed with silver, and ivory-barred,
For there the evening sunbeams shine

Their loveliest brilliance ere they set,
O'er sweet briar, rose, and eglantine,
And gild its flowery coronet.

But lorn is the bower of ERMEYGARDB;

The snail and the serpent are brooding there,
The dock and the thistle o'erspread the sward,

And flourish around the sweet parterre,
The fox of the forest there creeps to rest,
And on high, the wild bird builds her nest.

In the forest of oak, on the beech crowned hill,
The song of the minstrel is dead and still ;

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