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Quickly the Latin books are thrown aside,
The hats snatched up; and, like a flooding tide,
Out rush the merry hearts, o'erjoyed to be
Thus early in the fragrant morning free!
Away they scamper; they 've a feeling now
Of liberty, enlightening every brow:
Away they scamper, full of sport

away With careless minds, intent on various play: Huzza! a long and sunny holiday!

Now when the first wild transport of delight Subsides, they congregate with faces bright, Loud clamorous tongues, and speaking sparkling eyes; And sports and games, how innocent! devise. Ah! how unlike the headlong passions strong, Which hurry man's maturer heart along; Passions, in evil pleasures seeking vent,

Intenser but how much less innocent!

-

Alas! to these, ere few brief years be flown,
Will all their fiery tyranny be known.

But hence, O hence, anticipations vain!
Age! view their frolics

and be young again,

THE CONVICT SHIP.

BY I. K. HERVEY.

MORN on the waters! and purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light!
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the

gale!

The winds come around her in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along!
Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds !
Onwards she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters -away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away like a dream of the heart!
Who as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves! and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters! asleep on their breast,

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Seems not the ship like an island of rest?

Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain;
Who—as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty! could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within.

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Who- as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever! Or deems that he watches afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave!

'T is thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled : All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs! Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on - - just to cover our tears: And the withering thoughts which the world cannot

know,

Like heart-broken exiles lie burning below;

While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished

and o'er.

HOHENLINDEN.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious ev'ry charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

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