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THE BURIED FLOWER,

In the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charmed sleep, Oft I hear the angel voices

That have thrillid me long ago,Voices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow.

O, the-garden I remember,

In the gay and sunny spring, When our laughter made the thickets

And the arching alleys ring!

O the merry burst of gladness!

O the soft and tender tone ! O the whisper never utterd

Save to one fond ear alone !

Q the light of life that sparkled

In those bright and bounteous eyes! O the blush of happy beauty,

Tell-tale of the heart's surprise ! O the radiant light that girdled

Field and forest, land and sea, When we all were young together,

And the earth was new to me!

Where are now the flowers we tended !

Wither'd, broken, branch and stem; Where are now the hopes we cherish'd ?

Scatter'd to the winds with them,

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!

Nurs’d in hope and reard in love, Looking fondly ever upward

To the clear blue heaven above: Smiling on the sun that cheerd us,

Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness

Save to give it forth again :

Never shaken, save by accents

From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles

At the wooing of the bee.

O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon

All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth.

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O my dear and gentle lady,

Let me show thee all my pain,
Ere the words that late were prison'd

Sink into my heart again.

Love, they say, is very fearful

Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error

As the shadows scare the fawn.

Love hath bound me to thee, lady,

Since the well-remember'd day When I first beheld thee coming

In the light of lustrous May.

Not a word I dared to utter

More than he who, long ago,
Saw the heavenly shapes descending

Over Ida's slopes of snow :

When a low and solemn music

Floated through the listening grove, And the throstle's song was silenced,

And the doling of the dove : When immortal beauty open'd

All its grace to mortal sight, And the awe of worship blended

With the throbbing of delight. As the shepherd stood before them

Trembling in the Phrygian dell, Even so my soul and being

Ownd the magic of the spell ;

And I watch'd thee ever fondly.

Watch'd thee, dearest, from afar, With the mute and humble homage

Of the Indian to a star.

Thou wert still the Lady Flora

In her morning garb of bloom; Where thou wert was light and glory,

Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom. So for many a day I follow'd

For a long and weary while,
Ere my heart rose up to bless thee

For the yielding of a smile,-
Ere thy words were few and broken

As they answer'd back to mine,
Ere my lips had power to thank thee

For the gift vouchsafed by thine. Then a mighty gush of passion

Through my inmost being ran; Then my older life was ended,

And a dearer course began.

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In the ’nineties we saw (I remember the day)

Revolution disguised as Reform;
But the country was saved in a different way,

By the Pilot that weatherd the storm.
Our vessel was steer'd by the bravest and best,

And, except a few quality sprigs,
The whole English nation had thought it a jest

To propose being ruled by the Whigs.
But as matters now stand in this ill-fated realm,

When old comrades will give us the slip,
We are strangely compell?d to put men at the helm

To prevent them from scuttling the ship.
Only think, for a moment, if Russell were out,

How wild he'd be running his rigs !
About popular rights he would make such a rout-

'Tis lucky we're ruled by the Whigs.
The Church-can you doubt what her danger would be

Were Tories at present in power
Lord John, or his friends, we should certainly see

Attacking her posts every hour.

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