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No longer now from Leon's lips were heard
The sigh of bliss - the rapture breathing word;
No longer now upon his features dwelt

The glance that sweetly thrills- the looks that

melt;

No speaking gaze of fond attachment told,
But all was dull and gloomy, sad and cold.

Yet he was kind, or laboured to be kind,

And strove to hide the workings of his mind;
And cloak'd his heart, to soothe his wife's distress
Under a mask of tender gentleness.

It was in vain -for ah! how light and frail
To love's keen eye is falsehood's gilded veil?
Sweet winning words may for a time beguile,
Professions lull, and oaths deceive a while;
But soon the heart, in vague suspicion tost,
Must feel a void unfilled, a something lost;
Something scarce heeded, and unprized till gone,
Felt while unseen, and, tho' unnoticed, known:
A hidden witchery, a nameless charm,
Too fine for actions and for words too warm;
That passing all the worthless forms of art,
Eludes the sense, and only woos the heart:
A hallowed spell, by fond affection wove,
The mute, but matchless eloquence of love!

Oh! there were times, when to my heart there

came

All that the soul can feel, or fancy frame;

The summer party in the open air,

When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there; Where light came sparkling thro' the greenwood

eaves,

Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves;
Where every bush and tree in all the scene,
In wind-kiss'd wavings shake their wings of green,
And all the objects round about dispense
Reviving freshness to the awakened sense;
The golden corslet of the humble bee,
The antic kid that frolics round the lea;
Or purple lance-flies circling round the place,
On their light shards of green, an airy race;
Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade
An arch black eye, half pleas'd and half afraid;
Or bird quick darting through the foliage dim,
Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim;
Or poised in ether sailing slowly on,

With plumes that change and glisten in the sun,
Like rainbows fading into mist - and then,
On the bright cloud renewed and changed again;

Or soaring upward, while his full sweet throat,
Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note;
And sings in nature's language wild and free,
His song of praise for light and liberty.

And when within, with poetry and song,
Music and books led the glad hours along;
Worlds of the visioned minstrel, fancy-wove,
Tales of old time, of chivalry and love;

Or converse calm, or wit-shafts sprinkled round, Like beams from gems, too light and fine to wound;

With spirits sparkling as the morning's sun,
Light as the dancing wave he smiles upon,

Like his own course alas! too soon to know

Bright suns may set in storms, and gay hearts sink

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NIAGARA.

I.

ROAR, raging torrent! and thou, mighty river,
Pour thy white foam on the valley below;

Frown, ye

dark mountains! and shadow for ever The deep rocky bed where the wild rapids flow.

The green sunny glade, and the smooth flowing fountain,

Brighten the home of the coward and slave ;

The flood and the forest, the rock and the mountain, Rear on their bosoms the free and the brave.

II.

Nurslings of nature, I mark your bold bearing,
Pride in each aspect and strength in each form,
Hearts of warm impulse, and souls of high daring,
Born in the battle and rear'd in the storm.
The red levin flash and the thunder's dread rattle,
The rock-riven wave and the war trumpet's breath,
The din of the tempest, the yell of the battle,
Nerve your steeled bosoms to danger and death.

III.

High on the brow of the Alps' snowy towers
The mountain Swiss measures his rock-breasted

moors,

O'er his lone cottage the avalanche lowers,
Round its rude portal the spring-torrent pours.
Sweet is his sleep amid peril and danger,
Warm is his greeting to kindred and friends,
Open his hand to the poor and the stranger,
Stern on bis foeman his sabre descends.

IV.

Lo! where the tempest the dark waters sunder
Slumbers the sailor boy, reckless and brave,
Warm'd by the lightning and lulled by the thunder,
Fann'd by the whirlwind and rock'd on the wave;

Wildly the winter wind howls round his pillow,
Cold on his bosom the spray showers fall;
Creaks the strained mast at the rush of the billow,
Peaceful he slumbers regardless of all.

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