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Raising to me their sweet affectionate eyes,
Lisp gentle words, and wear deceiving smiles,
And silent hunger for their daily bread.

St Leon-still I love to breathe his name,
And will upbraid it not—where—where art thou?
Heaven grant amidst the fury of the storm,
When elements the elements assailed,
Like unfed lions battling for their prey,—
Thy all-protecting mercy, like a shield,
Guarded a being, whose most sinful deeds
Have been atoned by all our bitterest tears.
Soft-there are footsteps on the terrace now;
I'll meet him smiling-since the smile of love
Can soothe to peace the troubled brow of thought,
And all the pangs that rend an aching heart.

(Enter St Leon.)

ST LEON.

Once more returned-I hasten to receive

Affections sweet-thy beautiful embrace.
How is it with thee now?

MARGUERITE.

'Tis well-quite well!

Time hung a little heavy as it should,

In absence such as thine-of thee I thought,

Thy danger in the storm-and sighed and prayed-
Then smiling, mused upon the dreamlike hope
Of happiness to come.

ST LEON.

Sweet minister of comfort! who can see
With guilty eye such purity as thine,
Without an overwhelming flood of grief?
What have I done? How ruined thee and thine?
Thy virtue-love-and beauty, my reproach ;-
But now thou art my victim-then my judge;
And the deep sense of thy perfection breathes
More dreadful sentence on the head of him
Who was the fell destroyer of thy peace.

(Starting wildly.)

I see I know I feel myself accursed;

The demons shout it in my ears;—
very

Hark! they exulting laugh at my despair;-
I hear my children cry to me for bread,

• Father, I hunger,'-that one nears the grave-
My son calls down reproaches on my name,

Whilst thou

·(Becoming calm.)

I see thee as an angel rise,

Smiling forgiveness; nearer, and nearer still-
Until I fold thee in my shuddering arms,

To wet thy bosom with my guilty tears ;-
Oh-agony-remorse! Forgive wild words,
'Tis thou alone, sweet woman, can control
An erring spirit wildered by distress.

DESPONDENCY.

Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh;

O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,

Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er,

But with the closing tomb!

Alastor.

Happy ye sons of busy life,

Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Even when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet every sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same.
You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.

How blest the solitary's lot,

Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits,

Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his evening thought,

By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,

A faint collected dream!

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wandering, meandering,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part;

The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop and just to move,

With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,

Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !

Oh! enviable early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchanged for riper times,

To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

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