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XXVIII.

RETURNING MESSENGERS.

I.

I was harsh and unforgiving,

Cruel taunts escaped my tongue;

Every word, not dead, but living,

Pierced the bosom whence it sprung

Poison'd arrow, backwards flung.

II.

From my lips the words of blessing
Issued, though I know not when

Each my happy soul possessing
Came, an angel, back again,

Bearing blessings ten times ten.

XXIX.

THE TAMBOURINE GIRL OF PROCIDA.

I.

I LOVE my little native isle,

Mine emerald in a golden deep;
My garden where the roses smile,

My vineyard where the tendrils creep.

How sweetly glide the summer hours,
When twilight shows her silver sheen;
And youths and maids from all the bowers
Come forth to play the Tambourine.

II.

At morn the fisher spreads his sail
Upon our calm encircling sea;

The farmer labours in the vale,

Or tends his vine and orange tree.

But soon as lingering sunset throws
O'er woods and fields a deeper green,
And all the west in crimson glows,

They gather to the Tambourine.

III.

We love our merry native song,

Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks, Our moonlight walks the beach along,

For interchange of words and looks. When toil is done, and day is spent,

Sweet is the dance with song between; The jest for harmless pleasure meant,

And tinkle of the Tambourine.

IV.

My native isle, my land of peace;

My father's home, my mother's

May evermore thy joys increase,

grave;

And plenty o'er thy cornfields wave!

May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf,

Nor war pollute thy valleys green;

Nor fail the dance upon thy turf,

Nor music of the Tambourine!

XXX.

THE STAGE COACH AND THE STEAM

CARRIAGE.

O LUXURY of travel! joy refined!

To fly steam-harness'd, in the ponderous train, And feel the victory of mighty Mind

O'er space and time, for uses not in vain!

Yet ever in this world must loss and gain Balance each other. Is it speed we prize?

'Tis edged with danger, equipoised by pain,

And aids our business but to cheat our eyes.

Th' unsocial Rail affords no varied pleasure

Like yours, ye
Apt for our haste, delightful for our leisure;-

coaches of a former day:

We miss the cantering team, the winding way, The road-side halt, the post horn's well-known air, The inns, the gaping towns, and all the landscape fair.

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