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Have you felt a spouse expiring
In your arms, before your view?
Watch'd the lovely soul retiring

From her eyes that broke on you?

Did not grief then grow romantic,
Raving on remember'd bliss?
Did you not, with fervour frantic,
Kiss the lips that felt no kiss?

Yes! but, when you had resign'd her,
Life and you were reconciled;

ANNA left-she left behind her,
One, one dear, one only child.

But before the green moss peeping, His poor mother's grave array'd, In that grave the infant sleeping On the mother's lap was laid.

Horror then, your heart congealing,
Chill'd you with intense despair;

Can you call to mind the feeling ;-
No! there was no feeling there !

From that gloomy trance of sorrow,

When you

woke to pangs unknown,

How unwelcome was the morrow,

For it rose on YOU ALONE.

Sunk in self-consuming anguish,
Can the poor heart always ache?
No, the tortured nerve will languish,
Or the strings of life must break.

O'er the yielding brow of Sadness
One faint smile of comfort stole;
One soft pang of tender gladness
Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.

While the wounds of woe are healing, While the heart is all resign'd; 'Tis the solemn feast of feeling,

'Tis the sabbath of the mind.

Pensive memory then retraces
Scenes of bliss for ever fled,

Lives in former times and places,

Holds communion with the dead.

And when night's prophetic slumbers Rend the veil to mortal eyes,

From their tombs the sainted numbers Of our lost companions rise.

You have seen a friend, a brother,
Heard a dear dead father speak;
Proved the fondness of a mother,

Felt her tears upon your


Dreams of love your grief beguiling,

You have clasp'd a consort's charms, And received your infant smiling From his mother's sacred arms.

Trembling, pale, and agonizing,

While you mourn'd the vision gone,

Bright the morning star arising

Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.

Thither all your wishes bending,

Rose in ecstacy sublime,

Thither all your hopes ascending

Triumph'd over death and time.

Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,


you known such sweet relief?

Yes, my friend! and by this token,

You have felt "THE JOY Of grief."


* At Thebes, in Ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated Lyre, on a modern occasion, will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touched unskilfully.

HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres ;
While the HERO'S dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.

As the Sun's descending beams,
Glancing o'er thy feeling wire,
Kindle every chord that gleams
Like a ray of heavenly fire:

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