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O OFT HAVE I WEPT.

O oft have I wept when the wild-wakened strain,
In sadness, has murmured of wo;

As its thrill, gently healing my own bosom pain,
Bade the tribute of sympathy flow:

O oft would the gleamings of rapture succeed,

As the cadence of pleasure has stole;

When hope fondly smiled, and the wounds wont to bleed, Acknowledged its balmy control:

But ne'er is the thrill which awakens the tear,
Nor the cadence that vibrates delight,

Though melting in rapture, to me half so dear,

As thy notes, lonely bird of the night!

While saddened, I list to the deep plaintive song, Memory wakens, disdaining control;

The dim flood of ages rolls darkly along,

It comes with its deeds on the soul.

Then those whom I loved, by affection endeared, Who repose where the tall elders moan,

In the still passing whispers of evening are heard, As they sigh o'er the days that have flown,

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I gaze with emotion: I gaze, but they've fled,
See, slowly their forms disappear;

Naught remains but the ray on the cold heathy bed,
And the trace of the last lonely tear.

IMPROMPTU,

ON READING STANZAS BY GOLDSMITH..

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY."

Ah, no! Compassion yet imploring,
With balmy lip will sooth the sigh;
While Pity bends with look restoring,
The hapless maiden shall not die.

The thorn of guilt may pierce the sinner, Repentance will succeed the smart; Religion's holy smile shall win her,

And Mercy heal the wounded heart.

O WHO WOULD LOVE.

O WHO would love a world like this,
The sad receptacle of fears,

Did not the hope of future bliss

Like suns, break out and gild our tears?
Can all the worldling calls his own,
The meteor bliss, by pleasure given,
Cheer the sad heart that weeps alone,
Or heal the breast by anguish riven?

O who would yield existence' day,
The boon so frail, so soon withdrawn,
Did not the hand that leads our way
Point to a fairer, brighter dawn?
Could misery ne'er some ray descry,
Beyond death's shadowy veil of gloom;
The wretch accursed would dread to die,
Despair would shudder at the tomb.

NEW ENGLAND.

O HOW CANST THOU RENOUNCE THE BOUNDLESS STORE
OF CHARMS WHICH NATURE TO HER VOT❜RY YIELDS;
THE WARBLING WOODLAND, THE RESOUNDING SHORE,
THE POMP OF GROVES, AND GARNITURE OF FIELDS?

Beattie.

NEW ENGLAND, much-loved theme; in thee combined Are kindred titles, with this heart entwined; Country and home, names dear to every breast, Alive to manhood, and with soul possest;— How curst the bosom, cold as Zembla's snow, In whose recess no patriot feelings glow; Shame on the wretch, ne'er let his name be found, Whose soul dishonoured, thrills not with the sound.

Say, youthful Muse, how glows the generous heart, With impulse rich, unknown to languid art, How throbs the bosom, warmed with virtuous fire, And kindling zeal, that fain would all inspire,

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