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THE MIDNIGHT DREAM.

GENTLY as flows Time's noiseless stream,
In fancy steals the midnight dream;
Kindly the dear delusive power
Enchants the soul at memory's hour;
How sweet the retrospect to view,
And revel in bliss that day never knew.

Then thought returns to scenes of old,
The deeds to silent years untold;
Past joys like shadowy forms appear,
And griefs, long departed, renew the tear;
How sad the retrospect to view,

The smile, the tear, that infancy knew.

Then wrapt in vision's awful gloom,
The soul, indignant, bursts the tomb;
Behold her quit the track of time,
Prophetic, she seeks another clime!
How dread yon unknown worlds to view,

With shades of the deathless the past to renew.

WHAT DO'ST THOU HERE?

O WHY should care disturb thy breast,
And anxious hopes invade?

These cares can never yield thee rest,
These brilliant hopes shall fade:

Say, can this dross thy thoughts endear?
Say, say, my soul, "What do'st thou here?"

Why should'st thou prize these fleeting joys,
And build thy heaven on earth?
Ah, soon each false enjoyment cloys,
And vain is empty mirth;

Tell, can they bring true pleasure near?

Tell me, my soul, "What do'st thou here?"

Why should'st thou mourn thy lot unkind,
When sorrow's boisterous flood
Hath closed around thy 'nighted mind,
But brought thee near to God?

Is HE not all? is heaven not dear?

Say, weeping soul, "What do'st thou here?

THE SMILE IN DEATH.

AND MARKED THE MILD, ANGELIC AIR,

THE RAPTURE OF REPOSE THAT'S THERE.

Lord Byron.

WHEN the last stern and trophied foe,
The hoary monarch of the tomb,

The spirit frees from toils below,
And bears it through the valley's gloom:

I've seen upon the marble brow

The peaceful calm 'twas wont to wear; Though damps had gathered o'er it now, Though death had stamped his image there.

Say, O my soul, whence is the smile,
The smile that lingers on the clay;

That sweetly doth our wo beguile,
And checks the tear that grief would pay?

'Tis when,-like evening's murmuring breeze, That low and mournful steals along,

And softly sighing 'mid the trees,
Blends with the holy vesper song,-

Celestial sounds glide on the ear,
Visions to soothe the soul are given;
And ere the golden harps appear,
It mingles with the hymns of heaven.

TO DECEMBER.

FAREWELL, December, cheerless as thou art,
Arrayed in gloom; thou hast for me no smile;
Thou canst not whisper pleasure to this heart,
Thy aspect can not life's dark ills beguile.

Farewell, December, child of winter, stern,
Nature for thee weeps in funereal gloom;
Cheerless the trophies that adorn thy urn,
Cold are the rites that consecrate thy tomb.

Farewell, December; and with thee, the year,
Another year, that ends its course with thee;
Another year, dissevered from my span,
Lost in thy dark embrace, Eternity!

What hopes and fears, what schemes of future bliss,

Have sparkled on the past, with fairy gleam:

Futile those schemes, and false each hope, for this Brief life is but the shadow of a dream.

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