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But mine the sorrow,

mine the fault,

And well life shall pay;

my

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

And there forlorn, despairing hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turned to chide-
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear!
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee!

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign;

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine!

No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

-GOLDSMITH.

SHORTNESS OF LIFE.

FEW are thy days, and full of wo,
Oh man of woman born!

Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return."

Behold the emblem of thy state
In flowers that bloom and die,
Or in the shadow's fleeting form,
That mocks the gazer's eye.

Great God! afflict not in thy wrath
The short allotted span,

That bounds the few and weary days

Of pilgrimage to man.

All nature dies, and lives again:
The flower that paints the field,
The trees that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield,

Resign the honours of their form
At Winter's stormy blast,
And leave the naked leafless plain

A desolated waste.

Yet soon reviving plants and flowers

Anew shall deck the plain;

The woods shall hear the voice of Spring,

And flourish green again.

But man forsakes this earthly scene,

Ah! never to return:

Shall any following spring revive
The ashes of the urn?

The mighty flood that rolls along
Its torrents to the main,
Can ne'er recall its waters lost
From that abyss again.

So days, and years, and ages past,
Descending down to night,
Can henceforth never more return
Back to the gates of light;

And man, when laid in lonesome grave,
Shall sleep in Death's dark gloom,
Until the eternal morning wake
The slumbers of the tomb.

-SCRIPTURE PARAPHRASE.

FIRESIDE ENJOYMENTS.

I CROWN thee king of intimate delights,
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

Of long, uninterrupted evening, know.

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powdered, pert proficient in the art

Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds

Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake;
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Unfolds its blossom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most success when all besides decay.
The poet's or historian's page by one

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds,
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming strife triumphant still,
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
On female industry; the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume closed, the customary rites
Of the last meal commence-a Roman meal;
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,

Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,
And under an old oak's domestic shade,
Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg.
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:
Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
Who deem religion frenzy, and the God
That made them an intruder on their joys,
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise
A jarring note: themes of a graver tone,
Exciting oft our gratitude and love,

While we retrace, with memory's pointing wand,
That calls the past to our exact review,

The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,
The disappointed foe, deliverance found
Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored-
Fruits of Omnipotent Eternal love.

Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,
More to be prized and coveted than yours,
As more illumined, and with nobler truths,
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy!

-COWPER.

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