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THE WELCOME EVENING.
LET those that know no other bliss,
Than this poor dying life can give, Sigh when they think how short it is, And how precariously we live.
But thou, my soul, hast joys in store,
Hail ye, sweet ev'ning shades! all hail!
The sick'ning vanities of day.
Wrapt in these gentle shades I rest,
Hid from the world, the world from me;
But oh! none knows how I am blest
Thro' groves of bliss I seem to stray,
And blaze with intellectual light.
While half the world dream, start, and sleep,
'Till morning's melancholy dawn
Lets in confusion and the day, And noise and tumult hurry on,
And chase sweet Salem's peace away:
How doleful all the world seems then!
Oh! what is all that men call light,
When will th' eternal morning dawn
Let in salvation, and true day? Restore sweet Salem's joys again, And chase this hurrying time away. Rev. W. Richards.
BENEATH the droppings of this spout,
There lies the body once so stout
Of FRANCIS THOMPSON;
If aught of fault she can reveal,
Then rest, good shade, nor hell, nor vermin fear,
WHEN youth his fairy reign began,
And when along the waves of woe
But soon reflection's power impress'd
And, tho' in different climes to roam
S. T. Coleridge.
BY A LADY
DESERTED BY HER LOVER.
I CAUGHT a bright fantastic cloud,
And in the glitt'ring moonlight dress'd it; Then, of the beauteous pageant proud, Too fondly to my bosom press'd it.
I fancied by the dubious light,
I saw my phantom sweetly smiling; My bosom throbb'd with wild delight, All reason's sober fears beguiling.
What dreams of joy my soul revolv'd!
What pleasant visions hover'd o'er me! Till, by th' incautious warmth dissolv❜d, My treasure faded from before me.
Condemn'd henceforward still to grieve,
From treach'rous hope will I no more
And sink a prey to silent sorrow.