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'Twould sooth me, where in other days
With other thoughts I ranged,
On wood and hill and tower to gaze,
And find them still unchanged!
But now a tyrant's stern command
Constrains me hence to roam ;
Then, O farewell, my father-land,
Farewell my only home!
Whate'er of valley, or of hill,
In other lands I see,

That will I deem the loveliest place

That leads my thoughts to thee.

REV. T. DALE.

THE WOODMAN.

The Woodman with his keen bright axe,
Throughout the forest goes;

Its sound the leafy silence breaks,
Trees fall before its blows.

He careth not though summer green,
On leaves and blossoms there is seen;
He careth not for winter's cold,
But onward hews, the Woodman bold.
The forest king,-the mighty oak
He levels with the ground;
Its glories fall with every stroke

That through the glades resound,
Until at length so low 'tis laid,

That twigs long dwarf'd within its shade,
Do o'er it wave their leaflets free;

The Woodman bold what careth he.

The poplar, lady of the wood,
Is doom'd his prey to be,
He snaps the willow by the flood,
Nor spares the beechen tree.
The forest's pride he layeth low,
He nippeth all things that do grow :

The little shrub, the tree so old

He smiteth all-the Woodman bold.
He leaveth not the brier-bush,

He spareth not the rose,

Whene'er he comes the winds shall rush
No longer through green boughs.
He taketh all, he spareth none,

He leaves the tree-land bare and lone,
Without an elm to rest beneath-

The stalwart Woodman's name is-DEATH!

FORGET ME NOT.

Forget me not when I am gone,
I grieve to cause one sigh to thee,
But ere thou seest to-morrow's dawn,
Thou wilt have said farewell' to me.
When much-loved friends shall bid adieu
To him they never more may see,
"Twill cheer the last, sad, lingering view,
To know that thou wilt think of me.

Tho' years of sorrow pass away

Ere we can hope to meet again;
Sure as yon pale moon sheds her ray,
Unalter'd shall my truth remain :
When friendship's voice so sweetly dear
Shall loudly chant in praise of thee,
Then will my spirit hover near,

And gently whisper, "Think of me."

May guardian angels never cease

O'er thee their constant watch to keep; May painful thoughts ne'er wound thy peace, Nor anguish make thy eyes to weep: When heaven hangs out her orbs of light And thou in secret bend the knee,

Let memory tell thee of this night,
And with affection think of me.

E. F.

MY NATIVE SPOT.

My native spot, my native spot,
Where first I saw the day;
Oh, ne'er through life to be forgot,
Where'er my footsteps stray.

Where first I knew a mother's love,
And felt a mother's kiss;
And day-dreams of the future strove
With childhood's present bliss.

Alas! the present faded fast,

The future never came,
And life is but a wither'd waste,
And joy is but a name.

Yet midst the wreck of hopes o'ercast,
The weight of worldly ills,

With mournful pleasure still the past
My aching bosom fills.

There's nought maturer age can find
To equal those bright hours,
When the sunshine of the opening mind
Deck'd coming life with flowers.

Each happy scene returns to view,
The loved, the dead are there,
All gilded with the brilliant hue

Which childhood bade them wear.

My thoughts yet dwell on each loved haunt,
Beside each favourite tree;

The verdant path, the grassy mount,
An universe to me.

These speak of years of innocence,

Of many a sportive game,

Of schemes of youthful confidence
And airy plans of fame.

Now vanish'd all-the sports have fled,

Ambition and her train

No more excite this wearied head

The loved are wept in vain.

Yet still my native spot is dear,
When memory bids it rise;

Still hallowed with a heartfelt tear,
Still chronicled with sighs.

LORD DOVER.

THE PEN.

FROM THE GREEK.

I was an useless thing, a lonely reed!
No blossom hung its beauty on the weed.
Alike in summer's sun and winter's gloom;
I sigh'd no fragrance, and I bore no bloom.
No cluster wreath'd me,-day and night I pined
On the wild moor, and wither'd in the wind.
At length a wanderer found me. From my side
He smooth'd the pale decaying leaves, and dyed
My lips in Helicon! From that high hour

I SPOKE! My words were flame and living power!
And there was sweetness round me,-never fell
Eve's sweeter dews upon the lily's bell.

I shone!-night died!—as if a trumpet call'd,
Man's spirit rose, pure, fiery, disenthrall'd!
Tyrants of Earth; ye saw your light decline,
When I stood forth, a wonder and a sign.
To me, the iron sceptre was a wand,

The roar of nations peal'd at my command;
To me the dungeon, sword, and scourge, were vain,
I smote the smiter, and I broke the chain :
Or towering o'er them all, without a plume,
I pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom;
Till burst th' Olympian splendours on my eye,
Stars, temples, thrones, and gods,-Infinity!

CROLY.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Come, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad :
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise,
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.
But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation in her cell

Hears with faint eye her lingering knell
That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Though from hope's summit hurl'd,

Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from Heaven
To wean me from the world,—
To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss, that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes lie with him in the dust!

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