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For these, for these, we grieve!

What Time has robb'd us of, we knew must go;
But what he deigns to leave,

Not only finds us poor, but keeps us so.

It ought not thus to be;

Nor would it, knew we meek Religion's sway:

Her votary's eye could see

How little Time can give or take away.

Faith in the heart enshrin'd,

Would make Time's gifts enjoy'd and used, while lent ; And all it left behind,

Of love and grace, a noble monument.

STANZAS.

BOWLES.

I NEVER cast a flower away,
The gift of one who cared for me,
A little flower, a faded flower,
But it was done reluctantly.
I never look'd a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain,
E'en from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word farewell

But with an utterance faint and broken,
A heart-sick yearning for the time

When it shall never more be spoken.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

MOORE.

THOSE evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are pass'd away,
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

AGAINST SLANDER.

ANON.

SWEET to the scent's the smiling brier
Yet, touched, it gives us pain;
The stream, which we so much admire,
Is often stain'd with rain.

The painting that delights the eye,
To shades its beauty owes;
On the same humble shrub we spy
The thorn and blushing rose.

No mortal ever yet was made
From imperfection free;

Angels themselves have some small shade:
Heaven wills it thus should be.

Mercy to others' failings show,

As you would be forgiven;
The best man's lot, alas! is woe,
Were mercy not in Heaven.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

MOORE.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free!
Sing,-for the pride of the tyrant is broken,-
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave;

How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; Jehovah has triumph'd,—his people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; Jehovah has triumph'd,-his people are free!

TIME.

DR. KNOX.

TIME speeds away-away-away,
Another hour-another day—
Another month-another year—
Drop from us like the leaflets sear:
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs;
The tresses from the temple fall;
The eyes grow dim, and strange to all.

Time speeds away-away-away,
No eagle through the skies of day,
No winds along the hills can flee,
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage;
He bears us on-from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless eternity.

THE RUINED HOUSE.

CHARES SWAIN.

THE house is old, the house is cold,
And on the roof is snow:
And in and out, and round about,
The bitter night-winds blow;
The bitter night-winds howl and blow,
And darkness thickens deep;
And oh, the minutes creep as slow
As though they were asleep!

It used to be all light and song,
And mirth and spirits gay,-
The day could never prove too long;
The night seem'd like the day!
The night seem'd bright and light as day
Ere yet that house was old;

Ere yet its aged roof was grey,
Its inner chambers cold.

Old visions haunt the creeking floors;
Old sorrows sit and wail;

While still the night-winds out of doors
Like burley bailiffs rail!

Old visions haunt the floors above:
The walls with wrinkles frown;
And people say, who pass that way,
"Twere well the house were down.

I'VE PLUCKED THE BERRY.

MOTHERWELL.

I'VE pluck'd the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,

But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me:

I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer,

With their wild eyes, like glitt'ring beads, to note if harm were near;

I pass'd them by, and bless'd them all; I felt that it was good

To leave unmoved the creatures small, whose home is in the wood.

And here, e'en now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing,

He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his 'little wing.

He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,

I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay. Sing on, sing on, blithe bird!—and fill my heart with summer gladness,

It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

LORD BYRON.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset was seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd on the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

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