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I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

BY MRS HEMANS.

I Go, sweet friends! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours.

I go, but when you pause to hear,

From distant hills, the sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear, Think on me then-I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh! when music's voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd,
Think of me then!-I go, I go!

Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next Heaven, I trust.

Rowe.

Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sister's vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us-O, and is all forgot?

All school-day's friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition,

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem:
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.

Shakspeare.

As we do turn our backs

From our companion, thrown into his grave:
So his familiars to his buried fortunes

Slink all away: leave their false vows with him,
Like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self,
A dedicated beggar to the air,

With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty,

Walks, like contempt, alone.

Shakspeare.

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Gratitude.

A POET'S GRATITUDE.

BY SOUTHEY.

ONCE more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again
Behold thee in thy majesty serene,

Where, like the bulwark of this favour'd plain
Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene-
Thou glorious mountain, on whose ample breast
The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to

rest.

Once more, O Derwent! to thy awful shores
I come insatiate of the accustomed sight;
And, listening as the eternal torrent roars,
Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight:
For I have wander'd far by land and sea,
In all my wanderings still remembering thee.

Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief day!)

Nor idly, nor ingloriously spent,

Of evil and of good have held their way,

Since first upon thy banks I pitch'd my tent.

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