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My little sister she is pale;
She is too tender and too young To bear the autumn's sullen gale,
And all day long the child has sung. She was our mother's favourite child,
Who loved her for her eyes of blue ; And she is delicate and mild
She cannot do what I can do. She never met her father's eyes,
Although they were so like her own ;
A father to his child unknown.
A little playful thing was she;
The tale how he had sunk at sea.
How strange, how white, how cold she grew! It was a broken heart, they said
I wish our hearts were broken too.
They said our home no more was ours
The garden we had fill'd with flowers; The sounding shells our father brought,
That we might hear the sea at home;
The winter's golden honeycomb.
No shelter from the open sky ;
My mother's grave, and rest, and die. Alas, it is a weary thing
To sing our ballads o'er and o'er The songs we used at home to singAlas, we have a home no more!
TO A DESERTED COUNTRY-SEAT. Hail to thy silent woods, Thy solemn climate, and thy deep repose, Where the west wind as he goes Moans to the falling floods, That through the forest glide, And journey with a melancholy tide! Hail to thy happy ground, Where all is steep'd in stillest solitude; And no unhallow'd sound Wakes nature from her holy mood; Here let me waste away The little leisure of life's busy day! Thy lone and ancient towers Shall be my only haunt from youth to age; The wild grown garden bowers Shall shelter me in life's long pilgrimage ; And I will think me blest, For ever in thy peaceful bounds to rest.
On thee the sunbeam falls
And claims the lovely desert for her own,
Deep silence reigns around,
Wave, laurel, wave thy boughs,
Lo! where the lord of light
W. S. Roscoe.
WE parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river,
We met, and we parted for ever.
Told many a touching story,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.
We parted in silence,-our cheeks were wet
With the tears that were past controlling; We vow'd we would never--no never forget,
And those vows at the time were consoling:
Are cold as that lonely river;
Has shrouded its fires for ever.
And now on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full to weeping; Each star is to me as a sealed book,
Some tale of that loved one keeping.
On the banks of that lonely river;
THE VILLAGE BELLS.
'Twas evening when I left the vale,
That nursed my boyish years,
My inother's wet with tears ;
I heard the distant bells
With all their breathing spells ;-
The stars are in the blue sky set,
And light is on the sea,
But who shall welcome me?
of whom my spirit tells,
I heard those village bells
BEFORE THE DRAWING-ROOM.
I must be presented to-day,
For carrying up an address ;
My lady, why I should be less !
I must be presented to-day.