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Long ago, long ago!

For the days that are gone their tears shall flow: Cruel hour,-to tear them so

From all they cherished long ago.

Fare

ye well, fare ye well!

To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell :
Cruel tale it were to tell

How the emigrant sighs farewell.

Far

away, far away!

Is there indeed no hope to-day?

Cruel and false it were to say There are no pleasures far away.

Far away, far away! Every night and every day

Kind and wise it were to pray,

God be with them far away!

THE ASSURANCE OF HORACE.

I HAVE achieved a tower of fame
More durable than gold,

And loftier than the royal frame
Of Pyramids of old,—

Which none inclemencies of clime,

Nor fiercest winds that blow,

Nor endless change, nor lapse of time, Shall ever overthrow !

I cannot perish utterly:

The brighter part of me

Must live-and live-and never die,

But baffle Death's decree!

For I shall always grow, and spread
My new-blown honours still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.

THE ASSURANCE OF HORACE.

I shall be sung, where thy rough waves,
My native river, foam,—

And where old Daunus scantly laves

And rules his rustic home;

As chief and first I shall be sung,
Though lowly, great in might

To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.

Thou then, my soul, assume thy state,
And take thine honours due;
Be proud, as thy deserts are great, -
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy Poet's hair.

53

THE ASSURANCE OF OVID.

Now have I done my work!—which not Jove's ire
Can make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar !

My name shall never die : but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquered clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age ;-
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give

True note of inspiration, I shall live!

POST-LETTERS.

LOTTERY tickets every day,-
And ever drawn a blank!

Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank :

Morn by morn, and week by week,

They cheat us, or amuse, Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek Some stirring daily news.

The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,

But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!

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