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LEEP!—we give thee to the wave,
red with life-blood from the brave: thou shalt find a noble grave:
fare thee well !
Sleep! thy billowy field is won,
boom thy knell !
Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
bowed to weep.
sleep ! oh, sleep!
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED
ere one grief had bowed thy head!
brightly didst thou part !
with thy bounding heart.
Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
ere with dust o’erspread:
be about thee shem!
So we give thee to the earth,
o'er thy gentle head;
brightly thus hast fled !
DIRGE OF A CHILD
O bitter tears for thee be shed,
with flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed One!
such dwelling to adorn.
its incense there to breathe;
THOU by heaven ordained to be
arbitress of man's destiny ! from thy sweet lip one tender sigh, one glance from thine approving eye, can raise or bend him at thy will, to virtue's noblest flights or worst extremes of ill! Be angel-minded ! and despise thy sex's little vanities ; and let not passion's lawless tide thy better purpose sweep aside; for woe awaits the evil hour that tends to man's annoy thy heaven-entrusted power. Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart from every gross, unholy part ; thine, in domestic solitude, to win him to be wise and good; his pattern guide and friend to be, to give him back the heaven he forfeited for thee.
to ease the sickness of the soul ;
But she to-morrow will return,
THOUGH rude winds usher thee, sweet day,
though clouds thy face deform,
TO THE EVENING STAR
TAR that bringest home the bee,
if any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
that send'st it from above,
are sweet as hers we love.
and songs when toil is done,
curls yellow in the sun.
of thrilling vows thou art,
from age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, and Place and Time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; the only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, if but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; if but a beam of sober Reason play, lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! but can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? these, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, pour round her path a stream of living light; and gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest !
LOVE OF LUCRE
than for lucre his freedom to give;
and so ever neglecting to live!
not a moment unbent, or alone;
and at every one's call but his own!
yet studiously flying it still ;
but accurst with his wanting the will! For a year must be past or a day must be come,
before he has leisure to rest: he must add to his store this or that pretty sum,
and then will have time to be blest.
only swell the desire of his eye:
but not even my enemy die.