Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I starting wake to feel, thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

"Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy indignant pain;

'Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, so gentle, yet so


And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return.

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hath vanish'd from his view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage


Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot


Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on.

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause, and sadly think,

It was here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.

When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fever'd dream is o'er,

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have lov'd too long.

Who said that I had giv'n thee up? - who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed,-I fling them back their gold;

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,

Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for

his pains.



OH! had I nurs'd, when I was young,
The lessons of my father's tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew
From all he saw and others knew,)
I might have been — ah, me!
Thrice sager then I e'er shall be.
For what saith Time?

Alas! he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth!

The thoughts now budding in my brain
The wisdom I have bought with pain.
The knowledge of life's brevity -
Frail friendship-false philosophy,

And all that issues out of woe,
Methinks, were taught me long ago!
Then what saith Time?

Alas! he but brings back the truth
Of all I heard (and lost) in youth.

Truths! hardly learn'd and lately brought
From many a far, forgotten scene;

Had I but listen'd, as I ought,

To your voices, sage,


Oh! what might I not have been

In the realms of thought!



TIME moveth not; our being 'tis that moves;
And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream,
Dream of swift ages, and revolving years,
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days:
So the young sailor, in the gallant bark,
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast
Receding from his eye, and thinks the while,
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless,
And that the land is sailing.



WELCOME! Sweet time of buds and bloom, renewing

The earliest objects of delight, and wooing
The notice of the grateful heart; for then
Long-hidden, beauteous friends are seen again;

From the cleft soil, like babes from cradle peeping, At the glad light, where soundly they've been sleeping;

Like chickens in their downy coats, just freeing From the chipp'd shell, their new-found active being;

Like spotted butterfly, its wings uprearing,
Half from the bursting chrysalis appearing:
Sweet season, so bedight, so gay, so kind,
Right welcome to the sight and to the mind!

Now many a thing that pretty is, delays
The wanderer's steps beneath the sun's soft rays.
Gay daffodils, bent o'er the watery gleam,
Doubling their flickered image in the stream;
The woody nook where bells of brighter blue
Have cloth'd the ground in heaven's ethereal hue;
The lane's high sloping bank, where pale primrose
With hundreds of its gentle kindred blows;
And speckled daisies that on uplands bare
Their round eyes opening, scatter gladness there.
Man looks on nature with a grateful smile,

And thinks of Nature's bounteous Lord the while.



HUMILITY! the sweetest, loveliest flower
That bloom'd in Paradise, and the first that died,
Has rarely blossom'd since on mortal soil.
It is so frail, so delicate a thing,

'Tis gone if it but look upon itself;
And she who ventures to esteem it hers,
Proves by that single thought she has it not. 1


"Le plus sage est celui qui ne pense point de l'être." Boileau.


Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried: Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow:
But we steadfastly gaz'd on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

1 He was killed at Corunna, where he fell in the arms of victory, 1809. With his dying breath he faltered out a message to his mother. Sir John Moore had often said, that if he were killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets, The interment was hastened; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty.


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