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These fragments are Henry's latest compositions; and were, for

the most part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered himself to follow the impulse of his genius.

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SAW'ST thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paus'd;
Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream
That skirts the woods, it for a moment play'd.
Again, more light it gleam'd, -or does some sprite
Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams,
And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom,
As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice
Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,
Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?
No sprite deludes mine eyes,--the beam now glows
With steady lustre.—Can it be the moon,
Who hidden long by the invidious veil
That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods ?-
No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea
Of clouds beneath her, answered Rudiger,
She has been sleeping with Endymion.

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THE pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms, Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veild With intervening vapours; and looks down Serene

upon the troublous sea, that hides The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd The glaring sunbeam plays.


LO! on the eastern summit, clad in grey,
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes;

And from his tower of mist,
Night's watchman hurries down.


that pile;

THERE was a little bird

It perch'd upon a ruined pinnacle,
And made sweet melody.
The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,
For other note none swelld the air but his.
It seem'd as if the little chorister,
Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,
Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,
Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note
Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,

-Much musing


O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint

Thy melancholy ray;
When the still night's unclouded saint

Is walking on her way.
Through my lattice leaf-embower'd,
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam;
And o'er my silent sacred room,
Casts a chequer'd twilight gloom;

I throw aside the learned sheet,
I cannot chuse but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.


Sad vestal why art thou so fair,

Or why am I so frail ?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou’rt sad, but dost not speak

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding croud; So, mournfully compos'd, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.


O GIVE me music-for my soul doth faint;

I am sick of noise and care, and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,

Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, When all is still; and now it grows more strong,

As when the choral train their dirges weave, Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.

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