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I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, /
For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will shew,
Though the cold croud the secret never know;
With them I laugh—yet when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou did'st wrong me, * **; I fondly thought,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought;
I fondly thought that thou could’st pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in


bosom lies;
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power,
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.



Half past 11 o'clock at night.



YET once more, and once more, awake, my harp,
From silence and neglect--one lofty strain;
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries, more than words can tell,
I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year.

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer.-- Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beamed from on high!--Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate, we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark’d with how much misery;
Wars, fanines, and the fury, Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.

So has the year been character'd with woe
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes ;
Yet 'twas not thus He taught-not thus He liv'd,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving-He, a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,--path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still:-He came to cheer
The broken hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth.-- task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,
Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile
At the surrounding wreck.
When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,
His persecutors--" Father, pardon them,
They know not what they do.”

Angels of Heaven,
Ye who beheld him fainting on the cross
And did him homage, say, may mortal join
The hallelujahs of the risen God?
Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?
Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,

Low though it be and humble.--Lord of life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul.-I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more.

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YET once again, my harp, yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At even-tide, when all the winds were hush’d,
I woke to thee, the melancholy song.
Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;
Not unrepining, for my froward heart
Still turns to thee, mine harp, and to the flow
Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts
Of my not songless boyhood.--Yet once more,
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,
My long neglected harp.—He must not sink;
The good, the brave-he must not, shall not siuk
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe’s well,
Or Castaly,—though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse;
Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my lov'd country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe
Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart.-Thou Pity too,
If ever I have lov'd, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
Thy dying soul's viaticum; if oft
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness-visitant
Of Heaven—sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.

How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 'Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, wben

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