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Were there not friends with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,

The face of death survey’d.

Alone she sat:- from hill and wood

Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood-

Treason its worst had done.
With her long hair she vainly press’d

The wounds, to stanch their tide-
Unknown, on that meek humble breast,

Imperial Albert died !

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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 ?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof?d cabin, with lowly wall -
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams.”

Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they

know-
Lady, kind lady! 0, let me go.

“Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard."

“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low-
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go.”

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?-
But I know that my brothers are there at play-
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams

flow-
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go."

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?-
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow-
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go."

Vol. V.-24

INVOCATION.

“I callid on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost
To appear and answer."

WORDSWORTH.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night!

Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,

As a swift breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer'd me.

We roll
In light and power on high ;
But, of the never-dying soul,

Ask that which cannot die.”

Oh! many-toned and chainless wind !

Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place canst find,

Far over mount and sea ?
And the wind murmur'd in reply-

“ 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,
Answer! have ye a home for those

Whose earthly race is run ?
The bright clouds answer'd—“We depart, ,

We vanish from the sky;
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die.”

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