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Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd,
And grief baptized thy child ; As rivers run, in shade and sun,
He ran his courses wild.
Grieve not, though savage forests
Look'd grimly on the wave, Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers
Seem'd living in the grave.
Grieve not, though, by the torrent,
Its headlong course was riven,
Niagara from heaven!
For sometimes gently flowing,
And sometimes chafed to foam,
He sought his heavenly home.
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Here thy brother lies,
The meadow and the moor ;
The tyrant and the slave,
The palace—and the grave!
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim’d.
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
The equal of the great.
The poor man's little more ;
From plunder'd labour's store.
A heart to feel and dare-
Who drew them as they are.
Again the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ;
The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done,
Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb!
And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born!
Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,
FAREWELL,—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter !
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame !
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning,
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, belov’d of her Hero! forget thee
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deer; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ;
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell—farewell—until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
THE BEAUTY OF EXPRESSION.
THERE's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,