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For she was very beautiful,
Bewildering and bright,
And words, bewitch'd me quite.
That sweet madness with a sigh ; Nay, do not draw the hand away,
Nor droop the doubting eye;
By careless Caroline,
So pure a heart as thine!
By BARRY CORNWALL.
The Summer past, what dreams are over!
Sounds are in the earth and ether,
Shout, ye Winds and Thunders !
So, through wild November,
The Author of this poem is not known, but it well deserves preservation in these pages.
I've pleasant thoughts which memory brings, in moments
free from care, Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair ; Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching
eyes. Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, gentle notes that of deep gladness tell : She came, like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and
of mirth, And her thoughts were those wild flowery thoughts that
linger not on earth. A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive grace; She seem’d as if she thought the world a good and pleasant
one, And her light spirit saw no ill in aught beneath the sun. I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my
view, 'Mid the sober dull reality in their earthly form and hue, And her smile came gently o’er me like spring's first scented
airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares,
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me with my own lost
sunny days, With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant
things That have
of all the earth, on Time's resist
WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR.
The author of this spirited Irish Ballad was Dr. DRENNAN, one of the ablest of the writers among the United Irishmen. His songs were esteemed by Moore as almost the best of modern lyrics. Orr, wbose wake is here celebrated, was a young Presbyterian farmer of Antrim, who was executed under circumstances of harshness amounting almost to cruelty, for participation in the insurrection of 1798.
HERE our murdered brother lies ;
God of Peace, and God of Love,
Hunted through thy native grounds,
God of mercy! God of peace !
Who is she with aspect wild ?
Angel of this sacred place,
Here we watch our brother's sleep;
Better for man,
COMFORT IN NATURE.
Art sick ?-art sad ?-art angry with the world ?
Some feelings are to mortals given,
SIR W. Scott.
Oh, if there be one bour, which more Than any other craves a parent's presence, 'Tis that which gives his child away from him! She should go with his blessing warm upon her breathed With an attesting kiss; then may she go With perfect hope, and cheerly take with her The benisons of all kind wishers else!