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++ But see the dawn approaches fast

“ I hear our matin bell
“ One more kind kiss must be our last,

“ One more our last farewell.

Thrice did my trembling tongue essay

To bid the last adieu !
But thrice the accents dy'd away

And off the spirit flew.


Inscribed on the back-graund of the case in which

this beautiful bird is preserved.

“Oh pretty Pol--and pretty dear" Was all this bird could utter clear, And these you think might only be The words of lying vanity.

The relics of her beauty view And own that all she said was true,


The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last !

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore ;
Now rust disus’d, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary !

But well thou play'd'st the house-wife's part;
And all thy threads with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright!
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary.

For could I view nor them nor thee
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign ;
Yet, gently prest, press geutly mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill;
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! bg constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And sliould my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn out heart will break at last,

My Mary.


Now Spring returns, but not to me return's

The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying tạper burns,

And all the joys of life with health have flownt.

Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,

Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the silent moments as they pass :

The wiriged moments, whose unstaying speed

No art can stop, or in their course arrest, Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,

And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning dreams, presage approaching fate,

And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true ; Led by pale ghosts, I erter death's dark gate,

And bid the realms of light and lite adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe,

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,

Where mortals visit and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields, ye cheerful plains!

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless


There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the lak’rer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with wisdom, where my Daphnis lies

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