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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,
When pleasure stamped each glowing thought.

Ah! then what scenes arose !

What pleasures thrilled the breast!

How beamed the distant world,

In dazzling splendor drest!

Ambition waked each dormant power,
While Fancy lured me to her bower;
Hope's day-star beamed; the flattering ray
Presaged a bright, a prosperous day.

But now the scene how changed!

What clouds of darkness roll!
Cold each aspiring thought;
The winter of the soul!

No more my bosom swells with joy,
No flattering scenes my thoughts employ;
But hopes, once fondly cherished, seem
The phantoms of a feverish dream.

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,
When Fancy, Pleasure, Passion, fire,
Reason too weak to rule desire.
Ah! when, from all illusion free,
Shall every hope be placed in Thee !

-" 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,
What lofty hopes my beating heart inspire?
Why do I proudly spurn inglorious rest,
The pomp of wealth, the tumult of desire?

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,
Presenting scenes of splendor, yet to be ;—
Great God, thy word directs the lofty soul,

To live for glory, not from man, but thee.


THIS little purse, of silver thread
And silken cord entwined,
Was given, to ease the painful bed,
And soothe the anxious mind.

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
The humble child of woe;

But well the asking eye of want
Its silver spring should know.

While age or youth with misery dwell,

To cold neglect consigned,

No useless treasures e'er should swell

The purse with silver twined.


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