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TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.
For if, amid those orbs that roll,
For every one that stirs thy soul
Even new thy dear remembered eyes,
Filled up with floods of radiant light, Seem bending from the twilight skies,
Outshining all the stars of night: And thy young face divinely fair,
Like a bright cloud, seems melting through, While low sweet whispers fill the air,
Making my own lips whisper too; For never does the soft south wind
Steal o'er the hushed and lonely sea, But it awakens in my mind
A thousand memories of thee.
Oh! could I, while these hours of dreams
Are gathering o'er the silent hills, While every breeze a minstrel seems
And every leaf a heart that thrills, Steal all unseen to some hushed place,
And, kneeling 'neath those burning orbs, For ever gaze on thy sweet face
Till seeing every sense absorbs,
190 TO THE MEMORY OF A FBIEND.
And, singling out each blessed even
Forget another shines in heaven
While shines the one beloved by thee.
Lost one! companion of the blest
Thou, who in purer air dost dwell,
Or fled thy soul its mystic cell,
As none but kindred hearts can know,
But dreamed of that to which we go,
To wander o'er that shoreless sea,
Melting into eternity.
I'm thinking of some sunny hours,
That shone out goldenly in June,
With wild sweet voices all in tune,
Flowed thy transparent veil away,
The Eden of thy bosom lay;
TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. 191
And sheltered 'neath its dark-fringed lid
How modestly thy glance lay hid
There are some hours that pass so soon,
Our spell-touched hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June,
Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend!
Through autumn's soft and breezy reign,
And merry June shall come again! But, ah! while float its sunny hours
O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea, Missing thy face among the flowers,
How my full heart will mourn for thee!
BT WILLIAM CEOSWUX.
"The glory of Lebanon shall come onto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and 1 will make the place of my feet glorious."—Uauh.
The thickly woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallowed fene,
Of summer's gentle reign;
Which, like an emerald's glow,
Upon the crowds below.
Oh let the streams of solemn thought,
Which in those temples rise,
Dependant on the skies.
And winter's withering chill
Shall be unchanging still.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
The departed! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,
Like shadows over streams ;—
In constant lustre burn, The departed—the departed
Can never more return!
The good, the brave, the beautiful!
How dreamless is their sleep,
Of the ever-tossing deep,—
Pale Winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!