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Was it a dream ? or did my love behold

Indeed my lonely couch?—Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold

And hollow, and the livery of death Invested her pale forehead.-Sainted maid !

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, Through the long wintry night, when wind and


Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore

Of better promise ; and I know at last,

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ—to part no more.




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This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions :

written about the age of fourteen.


PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass how sweet
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet;
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village church-yard, and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine

And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view th' unclouded skies of former days!

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Bless'd Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,

Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight
Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,
And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,
I sit me down to think of former joys; [more,
Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once
And once again each infant walk explore.
While as each grove and lawn I recognise,
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;
Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;
Recall with faithful vigour to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;
And all the finer traits of them afford,
Whose general outline in my heart is stored.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls,
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean:

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