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WINGS.

To make the spirit mount again

That time has bowed, and grief, and pain!

It may not oh, it may not be!

I cannot soar on fancy's wing,

And hope has been,-like thee, like thee!

These many weary years, to me,

A lost and perished thing!

Are there no pinions left, to bear
Me where the good and gentle are!

Yes!-rise upon the morning's wing,"
And, far beyond the farthest sea,
Where autumn is the mate of spring,
And winter comes not withering,

There is a home for thee !—

Away-away-and lay thy head

In the low valley of the dead!

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Is it some vision of the elder day,

Won from the dead-sea waters, by a spell

Like her's who waked the prophet ?

-or a dream

Of burning Egypt,―ere the Lybian sand

Had flung its pall above a perished world, Dreamt on its dreary grave, that has no flowers? -It is the eastern orphan's ocean-home!—

The southern queen!-the city of the sea,

62

CARTHAGE.

Ere Venice was a name !—the lofty heart

That battled for the empire of the world,

And all but won,-yet perished in the strife!
Now, in her young, proud beauty ;-the blue waves,
Like vassals, bending low, to kiss her feet,
Or dancing to their own sweet minstrelsy!—
The olives hanging round her crested front,
Like laurel-crowns upon a victor's brow!-
Beneath her palms, and 'mid her climbing bowers,
Darts, like a sunny flash, the antelope!

And bound the wild deer, where the severing boughs
Wave forth a goddess!-in her hunter-guise,

She wakes the perfumes of the Tyrian's groves,
To welcome from the waves her pilgrim boy,
And point his tangled pathway, to the towers
That to his homeless spirit speak of home!

Alas! the stately city !—is it here,

Here, 'mid this palace pomp and leafy store,

(Bright as some landscape which the poet sees

Painted, by sunset, on a summer sky,

In hues the dolphin borrows, when he dies!) 'Mid all this clustering loveliness and life, Where treads the Trojan,-that, in after-years,

A lonelier exile and a loftier chief

Sat amid ruins!

I THINK ON THEE, IN THE NIGHT.

There is lyf withoute ony deth,

And there is youthe withoute ony elde,
And there is alle manner welthe to welde,
And there is reste withoute ony travaille,
And there is bright somer ever to se,
And there is never wynter in that countree.

RICHARD ROLLE.

I THINK on thee, in the night,

When all beside is still,

And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light,

To sit on the lonely hill!

When the stars are all like dreams,

And the breezes all like sighs,

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