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Mysterious murmurs fill,

A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still.

O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.

of vanish'd troubles sing, Of fears for ever fled,

of flowers that hear the voice of Spring, And burst and blossom from the dead;

Of home, contentment, health, repose, Serene delights, while years increase; And weary life's triumphant close

In some calm sun-set hour of peace;—

Of bliss that reigns above, Celestial May of Youth, Unchanging as Jehovah's love, And everlasting as his truth:

Sing, heavenly Hope!-and dart thine hand
O'er my frail Harp, untuned so long;
That Harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.

Ah! then, this gloom control,

And at thy voice shall start A new creation in my soul, A native Eden in my heart.


Verses written for an Urn, made out of the trunk of the Weeping Willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.

ERE POPE resign'd his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The minstrel hung his harp in death

Upon the drooping Willow; That Willow from Euphrates' strand, Had sprung beneath his training hand.

Long as revolving seasons flew,

From youth to age it flourish'd; By vernal winds and starlight dew,

By showers and sunbeams nourish'd; And while in dust the Poet slept, The Willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld his silvery head

With graceful grandeur towering, Its pensile boughs profusely spread, The breezy lawn embowering, Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot A grove of scions from one root.

Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,
Beneath its twilight solitude
With songs their Poet greeting,

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Lone on a mossy bank it grew,

Where lichens, purple, white, and blue,
Among the verdure crept;
Its yellow ringlets, dropping dew,
The breezes lightly swept.

A bee had nestled on its blooms,
He shook abroad their rich perfumes,
Then fled in airy rings;
His place a butterfly assumes,
Glancing his glorious wings.

O, welcome, as a friend! I cried,
A friend through many a season tried,

Nor ever sought in vain,
When May, with Flora at her side,
Is dancing on the plain

Sure as the Pleiades adorn
The glittering coronet of morn,
In calm delicious hours,
Beneath their beams thy buds are born,
'Midst love-awakening showers.

Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand,
In briery glens, o'er pasture-land,

Thy fairy tribes we meet;
Gay in the milk-maid's path they stand,
They kiss her tripping feet.

From winter's farm-yard bondage freed, The cattle bounding o'er the mead,

Where green the herbage grows, Among thy fragrant blossoms feed,

Upon thy tufts repose.

Tossing his forelock o'er his mane,
The foal, at rest upon the plain,
Sports with thy flexile stalk,
But stoops his little neck in vain,
To crop it in his walk.

Where thick thy primrose blossoms play, Lovely and innocent as they,

O'er coppice lawns and dells, In bands the rural children stray, To pluck thy nectar'd bells;

Whose simple sweets, with curious skill,
The frugal cottage-dames distil,

Nor envy France the vine,
While many a festal cup they fill
With Britain's homely wine.
Unchanging still from year to year,
Like stars returning in their sphere,
With undiminish'd rays,
Thy vernal constellations cheer

The dawn of lengthening days.
Perhaps from Nature's earliest May,
Imperishable 'midst decay,

Thy self-renewing race Have breathed their balmy lives away In this neglected place.

And O, till Nature's final doom,
Here unmolested may they bloom,

From scythe and plow secure,
This bank their cradle and their tomb,
While earth and skies endure!

Yet, lowly Cowslip, while in thee
An old unalter'd friend I see,
Fresh in perennial prime,
From Spring to Spring behold in me
The woes and waste of Time.

This fading eye and withering mien
Tell what a sufferer I have been,

Since more and more estranged,
From hope to hope, from scene to scene
Through Folly's wilds I ranged.

Then fields and woods I proudly spurn'd, From Nature's maiden love I turn'd,

And woo'd the enchantress Art; Yet while for her my fancy burn'd, Cold was my wretched heart,

Till, distanced in Ambition's race,
Weary of Pleasure's joyless chase,
My peace untimely slain,
Sick of the world,-I turn'd my face
To fields and woods again.

'Twas Spring;-my former haunts I found, My favorite flowers adorn'd the ground, My darling minstrels play'd;

The mountains were with sun-set crown'd, The valleys dun with shade.

With lorn delight the scene I view'd,
Past joys and sorrows were renew'd;
My infant hopes and fears
Look'd lovely, through the solitude
Of retrospective years.

And still, in Memory's twilight bowers, The spirits of departed hours,

With mellowing tints, portray The blossoms of life's vernal flowers For ever fall'n away.

Till youth's delirious dream is o'er, Sanguine with hope, we look before,. The future good to find;

In age, when error charms no more, For bliss we look behind.


The body of the Missionary, John Smith, (who died February 6, 1824, in prison, under sentence of death by a court-martial, in Demerara), was ordered to be buried secretly at night, and no person, not even his widow, was allowed to follow the corpse. Mrs. Smith, however, and her friend Mrs. Elliot, accompanied by a free Negro, carrying a lantern, repaired beforehand to the spot where a grave had been dug, and there they awaited the interment, which took place accordingly. His Majesty's pardon, annulling the condemnation, is said to have arrived on the day of the unfortunate Missionary's death, from the rigors of confinement, in a tropical climate, and under the slow pains of an inveterate malady, previously afflicting him.

COME down in thy profoundest gloom, Without one vagrant fire-fly's light,

Beneath thine ebon arch entomb

Earth, from the gaze of Heaven, O Night!

A deed of darkness must be done,
Put out the moon, hold back the sun.

Are these the criminals, that flee

Like deeper shadows through the shade? A flickering lamp, from tree to tree,

Betrays their path along the glade, Led by a Negro;-now they stand, Two trembling women, hand in hand.

A grave, an open grave, appears;

O'er this in agony they bend, Wet the fresh turf with bitter tears;

Sighs following sighs their bosoms rend: These are not murderers!-these have known Grief more bereaving than their own.

Oft through the gloom their straining eyes

Look forth, for what they fear to meet: It comes; they catch a glimpse; it flies:

Quick-glancing lights, slow-trampling feet, Amidst the cane-crops,-seen, heard, gone,— Return, and in dead-march move on. A stern procession!-gleaming arms, And spectral countenances, dart, By the red torch-flame, wild alarms,

And withering pangs through either heart; A corpse amidst the group is borne, A prisoner's corpse, who died last morn.

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O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,---
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,

And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
O, when shall I visit the land of my birth!
-"T is the loveliest land on the face of the earth.


Imitated from the Italian of Metastasio.

THE tall Oak, towering to the skies,
The fury of the wind defies,
From age to age, in virtue strong,
Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O'erwhelm'd at length upon the plain,
It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main;
The self-same foe daunted braves,
And fights the wind upon the waves.


THIS shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,

Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime-

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Nor only o'er the Dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

What is it?-Mortal Man!
It is the scythe of Time:
-A shadow only to the eye;
Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till Nature's race be run,

And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.

Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

The scythe of Time destroys, And man at every footstep weeps O'er evanescent joys;

Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn
Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn.
-Ah! soon, beneath the inevitable blow,
I too shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb, Whose moving shadow shall portend Each frail beholder's doom.

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Like autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign;
My harvest-moon scarce fill'd her horn,
When she began to wane.

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