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How. sweet upon my slumbers break
Those solemn sounds with dying fall; The music of the midnight wake,
When silence sleeps on all !
Its streams that weep o'er past delight,
And soften into sigbs, prolong The soul of sorrow this the night,
Which breathes on Scottish song.
the heart like balm, Of brighter days the memory brings ; And nights of beauty-peace and calm,
All fled on angel wings.
Now, through the silence deep and wide
The soft aërial accents swoon ;
Beneath the midnight moon.
And sweet as that which charmed the hours
From Chaos, when Creation sprung; And on green Eden's early bowers
The stars of morning sung.
Or, such as tranced lone shepherds, when
The angels hymned a Saviour's birth, In strains that breathed good will to men,
And promised peace to earth.
Oh thus may sleepless sorrow's ear
Be ever soothed with music's strain, The purest-best of pleasures here, Which leaves nor sting nor stain.
John Malcolm, Esg.
And is it in the flight of threescore years
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge ;
The rose had been washed (just washed in a shower)
Which Mary to Anna conveyed ;
And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was quite full, and the leaves were all wet,
And it looked to a fanciful view,
On the beautiful bush, where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And shaking it rudely-too rudely, alas!
I snapt it-it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pityless part,
Some act by the delicate mind;
Already to sorrow inclined.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less
Might have bloomed with its owner a while ; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.
THE PARTING SONG.
I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! thou’rt from my na
tive dell, Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of fare
well! And fare thee well -flow on, my stream ! flow on thou
bright and free, I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me. But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving
years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears
my tears ;
have known: The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept
I see thee once again, my home! thou'rt there amidst thy
vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer
shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the
groves, The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother
loves ! The hour the mother loves for me beloved it hath not
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene ! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my
Not as the dead !-- no, not the dead ! we speak of them
we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bo