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A maniac now, in dumb despair,
With love-bewilder' d mien,

He wanders, weeps, and watches there.
Among the hillocks green.

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And every eve of pale St Mark,
As village hinds relate,

He walks with Ella in the dark,
And reads the rolls of Fate!

At fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein,-
I never felt so sweet a pain!

Where circling woods embowerM the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand,—it shrunk, but no!
I would not let my captive go.

With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye,
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy.

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, wooes young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon!

The angel of affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pourM his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

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Yet, in the glory of my pride,

I stood,—and all his wrath defied;

I stood,—though whirlwinds shook my brain,

And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph—and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye:
I shunn'd her— for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest;
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of youth and pleasure smiled.

'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way;
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the spring.

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more:
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,—
My wife, my children, and my cot!

I saw the village steeple rise,—
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,—
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet:—all was gay;

I love a rustic holiday 1

I met a wedding—stepp'd aside;

It pass'd—my Hannah was the bride!

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There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run.
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

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Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wiid-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page:—in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,—
The Daisy never dies.

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Winter, retire!

Thy reign is past;

Hoary sire!

Yield the sceptre of thy sway,

Sound thy trumpet in the blast,

And call thy storms away;

Winter, retire!

Wherefore do thy wheels delay l

Mount the chariot of thine ire,

And quit the realms of day;

On thy state

Whirlwinds wait;

And bloodshot meteors lend thee light;

Hence to dreary arctic regions

Summon thy terrific legions;

Hence to caves of northern night

Speed thy flight.

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