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Though illusion aids no more the poetry of youth,
Its fabled sweetness o'er, it leaves a pensive truth ;—
That tears the sight obscure, that sounds the ear betray,
That nothing can allure the heart to go astray.

TO

In an old number of the Athenaum, where it appeared anonymously.

Bot once I saw thee: many round
In maiden youth and fairness shone,

And yet a strange delight I found
To gaze, to muse, on thee alone:

Such dim, yet most delicious thought,

Thy gentle presence in me wrought.

It was not love; my fondest vow
Was given to one more brightly fair:

Not joy; for o'er thy cheek and brow
Too plain was sketch'd a shadowy care:

Not grief; for on my soul like balm

Sank down each look, pure, soft, and calm.

It ask'd not, if by unkind fate

Thy heart's young hopes were early blighted,
If dinim'd by human love or hate.

Thy beauty,—whilst I fed delighted
On fancies, a sweet wildering throng
Unknown before, or faded long.

So once I felt, an untaught child,
When new-born in the weeping sky,

The bright bow forth upon me smiled;
Nor cared to learn the ' how,' or ' why :'

So rapturous was then to me

Its marvel and its mystery.

Like that, all beauty, 'smiles and tears,'
Thou blendest heaven and earth as sweetly

Yet ah! too true my boding fears,
That I should see thee fade as fleetly,

And thou 'mid voiceless forms must dwell,

A sainted shade in memory's cell.

THERE'S NONE A FEELING HATH WITH ME.

Found in one of the annuals for 1829, under the name of Hehry Scott.

Tis morn; the sun comes blithely on

And rouseth nature's glee;

All earth is glad; but there is none

A feeling hath with me!

The very trees are not alone,

The breeze doth fan them, and the sua

Doth woo them fervently;

The birds are singing to the flowers,

And spring is busy in the bowers.

Tis sad to mark the joy and life

Around, above, below,—

Earth, ocean, air, with joyance rife

In nature's vernal glow,—

Then turn and gaze into my breast,

And mark all there in darkness drest,

Where weeds of sorrow grow;

And watch the spirit's strife within,

And fear Despair the victory win!

Alas, how changed! To me the earth
Was one wide field of joy;
For me the sun more bright shone forth,
For me more freshly bloom'd the flowers,
More rich for me the green-wood bowers;
The birds for me sang high;
The very thunder-cloud that came
Awaked wild rapture with its flame!

'Tis not dull misanthropic gloom

That darkens all I see;

Nor grief for those within the tomb,

Or bright hopes reft from me;

Nor bitter dregs of long distress,

That make me feel such loneliness—

'Tis that cold thought which ne'er doth flee,

"There's none a feeling hath with me!"

But hush! thou impious heart of clay,

Thyself in ashes bow;

How dare a thing created say,

"High heaven, what doest thou 1"

I surely am not all alone—

There is a Friend—a mighty one—

Whose blood for me did flow:

And hope doth whisper unto me

"There's Ohb a feeling hath with thee!"

THE DEAD CHILD.
By Charles Lamb.

I Saw where in the shroud did lurk

A curious piece of nature's work,

A floweret crushed in the bud,

A nameless maid, in babyhood,

Was in her cradle-coffin lying;

Extinct, with scarce a show of dying:

So soon to exchange th' imprisoning womb

For darker prison of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth—then straight up shut

For the long dark : ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.—

Riddle of destiny! who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that nature, blind,

Check'd her hand and changed her mind,

Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire ?—
Or lack'd she the Prometean fire

S'ith her tedious workings sicken'd)
at should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature;
Womanhood in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply'
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make beauty by ;—
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry _
That, babe or mother, one must die;
So, in mercy, left the stock
And cut the branch: to save the shock
Of young years widow'd: and the pain
When single state comes back again
To the lorn man: who 'reft of wife,
Thenceforwards drags a maimed life?
The economy of heaven is dark;
And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
Why heaven's buds, like this, should fall
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose;
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Corals redder than those lips
\Vhich pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infant's glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
(Loving hearts were they which gave them),
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant, slain by doom perverse,—
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;

And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,—
A more harmless vanity?"

SONNET.
By Hartley Coleridge.

It must be so—my infant love must find
In my own breast a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,
Or rebel spirit, bound within the rind
Of some old wreathed oak, or fast enshrined
In the cold durance of an echoing cave:—
Yea, better thus, than cold disdain to brave,—
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind,
That decks its temple with unearthly grace.
Together must we dwell—my dream and I,
Unknown must live, and unregarded die,—
Rather than soil the lustre of that face,
Or drive that laughing dimple from its place,
Or leave that white breast with a painful sigh.

EDDEELINE'S DREAM.

A passage in Professor Wilsojj's poem, so called.

From her pillow, as if driven

By an unseen demon's hand

Disturbing the repose of heaven,

Hath fallen her head! The long black hair,

From the fillet's silken band

In dishevell'd masses riven,

Is streaming downwards to the floor.

Is the last convulsion o'er?

And will that length of glorious tresses,

So laden with the soul's distresses,

By those fair hands in morning light,

Above those eyelids opening bright,

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