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SLOW sweeps the northern blast
Along the dreary way;
While, from the ice-bound streams,
The chilling moon-beams play;
Yet still I love to linger here,
While sad remembrance claims a tear
For joys, which youthful fancy brought,
Ah! then what scenes arose !
What pleasures thrilled the breast!
How beamed the distant world,
In dazzling splendor drest!
Ambition waked each dormant power,
But now the scene how changed!
What clouds of darkness roll!
No more my bosom swells with joy,
Thou God of all, whose power
The elements obey;
Save me from Passion's rage,
From Pleasure's maddening sway!
Thou seest my heart with rapture glow,
Thou seest my life-blood swiftly flow,
-" Après ma mort, quand toutes mes parties Par la corruption sont anéanties,
Par un même destin il ne pensera plus!"
Frédéric le Grand.
ARE these the dictates of eternal truth?
These the glad news your boasted reason brings? Can these control the restless fire of youth, The craft of statesmen, or the pride of kings?
Whence is the throb that swells my rising breast,
Is it to swell the brazen trump of fame,
To bind the laurel round an aching head, To hear for once a people's loud acclaim, Then lie for ever with the nameless dead?
Oh no! far nobler hopes my life control,
To live for glory, not from man, but thee.
THE PURSE OF CHARITY.
THIS little purse, of silver thread
The maker's secret bounty flows,
To bid the poor rejoice,
And many a child of sorrow knows
The music of her voice.
The little purse her hands have wrought, Should bear her image still;
And with her generous feelings fraught,
Her liberal plans fulfil.
Its glittering thread should never daunt
But well the asking eye of want