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TO A LADY, WITH A WITHERED LEAF.
It grew upon a hallowed spot,
And sacred is its memory.
That hung above my mother's giane,
Could'st prize the gift affection gave She faded with the flowers of spring,
That o'er her lifeless form were cast,-And when I plucked this faded thing,
’T was shivering in the autumn blast. 'T was the last one !-all-all were gone,
They bloomed not where the yew trees wave; This leaf and I were left alone,
Pale watchers o'er my mother's grave.
I marked it, when full oft I sought
That spot so dear to memory ; I loved it-for I fondly thought,
It lingered there to mourn with me! I've moistened it with many a tear,
I've hallowed it with many a prayer : And while this bursting heart was clear
From guilt's dark stain, 1 shrined it there,
Now, lady, now the gift is thine !
0, guard it with a vestal's care; Make but thine angel heart its shrine,
And I will kneel and worship there!
BY M. WARD.
THERE was a Lyre, 't is said, that hung
High waving in the summer air ; An angel hand its chord had strung,
And left to hreathe its music there. Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,
In coral grottoes of the main.
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
Bright with the tears, that morning wept, He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,
Waved lightly his soft azure wing ; What touch such music could inspire !
What harp such lays of joy could sing ! The murmurs of the shaded rills,
The birds, that sweetly warbled by, And the soft echo from the hills,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh. When the last light of fading day
Along the bosom of the west, In colors softly mingled lay,
While night had darkened all the rest, Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,
Along the dewy breeze of even;
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.
And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Would oft around the wild harp play
In earth and air it shone no more ;
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
The tempest's fury raged along-
To shield the harp of heavenly song !
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
Sometimes, though always light and warm.
The savage wind more fiercely blew;
For every chord was torn in two.
TO A WILD DEER.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast; The pang, that thus its bosom tore,
Was dreadful—but it was the last. And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form, And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,
That lyre they could not wake or warm.