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And tears from pity's fount will flow,
And on the cheek full sunny glow,

Of joy the fond presage!

Thy days shall onward wing their way,
Like the month of fragrance-breathing May;
Or should Grief come thy beauties to enshroud
It shall pass o'er thee like an April cloud.

CANZONET.

By John Bird, Esq.

LOVE farewell!

Fickle as fair,

Hope's fond spell

Fades into air

Like pale leaves of autumn sighing,

All our joys are drooping,-dying!— Love farewell!

Fickle as fair,

Hope's fond spell

Fades into air!

Love farewell!

Moments are dear,

When eyes tell

Parting is near

Kindred heart to heart appealing

Kindred glances love-vows sealing!

Love farewell!

Moments are dear,

When eyes tell

Parting is near!—

Love farewell!

After soft showers,

Spring-buds swell,

Into fair flowers

Bright o'er passing storm-clouds bending, Rainbow hues are richly blending!—

Love farewell!

After soft showers,

Spring-buds swell,

Into fair flowers.

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STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY, WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN.

By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.

'Twas my last waking thought, How can it be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st

endure?

When strait from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look,
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game,
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin,
Two FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
That to let forth, and this to keep within!

But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of pleasure only will to all dispense,

That Fount alone unlock, by no distress

Choked or turn'd inward; but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright:

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,

On that benignant face, whose look alone (The soul's translucence through her chrystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.

A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing
But with a silent charm compels the stern,
And fost'ring genius of the BITTER SPRING,
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,

And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?

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