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Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd,
Grieve not, though savage forests
Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers
Grieve not, though, by the torrent,
Its headlong course was riven,
When o'er it came, in clouds and flame,
For sometimes gently flowing,
And sometimes chafed to foam,
O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep,
He sought his heavenly home.
A POET'S EPITAPH.
STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace-and the grave!
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
But, honouring in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.
He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little more;
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder'd labour's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,
A heart to feel and dare
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
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,
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
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,
FAREWELL,-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
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,
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
Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee-
Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; 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 ;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber,
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,
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages,