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Were there not friends with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh?
Before the glazing eye?
Upon her bosom laid,
The face of death survey’d.
Alone she sat:- from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Treason its worst had done.
The wounds, to stanch their tide-
Imperial Albert died !
Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius callid too soon away, Of light from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect dayHow shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee?
Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard ?
And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word,
Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes, in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'dOf heaven they were, and thither have return’d.
How shall we mourn thee? --With a lofty trust,
Our life's immortal birthright from above! With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep!- for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.
And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd ! Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career
Not to decay, but unto death hast bow'd; In those bright regions of the rising sun, Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.
Praise ! for yet one more name with power endow'd,
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine; whose memory from the dead,
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.
St. Asaph, Sept. 1826.
THE ADOPTED CHILD.
“Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ?
“Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
“Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell,
“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more, Nor hear her song at the cabin door. Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”
“Is my mother gone from her home away?-
Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now, They sport no more on the mountain's brow; They have left the fern by the spring's green side, And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.”
“Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?-
“I callid on dreams and visions, to disclose
ANSWER me, burning stars of night!
Where is the spirit gone,
As a swift breeze hath flown?
Ask that which cannot die.”
Oh! many-toned and chainless wind !
Thou art a wanderer free;
Far over mount and sea ?
“ The blue deep I have cross'd, And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost.”
Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Whose earthly race is run ?
We vanish from the sky;
For that which cannot die.”