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O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing,
That which will closest and longest cling,
Is alone worth a serious thought:
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed
Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
CLOSE OF A BEAUTIFUL DAY.
THE day declines, and to his couch
That brightens into rapturous farewell!
The air is fragrant with the soul of flowers,
My days amid the dead are past;
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
My never-failing friends are they,
With them I take delight in weal,
And while I understand and feel
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
My thoughts are with the dead; with them
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with a humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead; anon
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
"AND art thou cold, and lowly laid,
For thee, who lov'd the minstrel's lay,
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!
Ev'n she, so long belov'd in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
THE ALPS AT DAYBREAK.
THE sun-beams streak the azure skies,
From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
The goats wind slow their wonted way
And while the torrent thunders loud,
There are passes in the Alps, where travellers are obliged to move on in silence, and even, it is said, to muffle the bells of their mules, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above.
THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,
may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind.
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I be
The stranger hath thy bridle rein- thy master hath his gold
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell: thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.
Farewell! these free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home.
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again;
Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant
sun and sky,
Thy master's home, from all of these, my exil'd one must fly.