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THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
Our voice in theirs through time shall swellThe bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
He dies—but yet the mountains stand,
Yet sweeps the torrent's tide,
Aneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.
All night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
Before the raging blast,
And bow'd her noble mast.
The queenly ship !-brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her-
Like floating gossamer.
A star once o'er the seas-
And sadder things than these.
We saw her treasures cast away
The rocks with pearls were sown,
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.
Like ashes by a breeze-
Had sadder things than these!
We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside-
Not without strife he died.
Till then we had not wept,
That there a mother slept !
For her pale arms a babe had prest,
With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.
And beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
In melancholy grace.
With half-shut violet eye-
Nought of her agony !
Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieuSurely thou hast another lot,
There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea !
A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.
-His very heart athirst
The hollow dash of waves !—the ceaseless roar!
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,