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They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, on earth!

HEMANS.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rollid on - he would not go,

Without his father's word: That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He call’d aloud — “Say, father, say,

If yet my task is done ?
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone! And” – but the booming shots replied –

And fast the flames rollid on.

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And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father! must I stay ?While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy - oh! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea !

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part —
But the noblest thing that perish'd there,
Was that young faithful heart.

HEMANS.

THE WIFE.

SHE clung to him with woman's love,

Like ivy to the oak,
Whilst o'er his head, with crushing force,
Earth's chilling tempests broke.

And when the world look'd cold on him,

And blight hung o'er his name,
She sooth'd his cares with woman's love,

And bid him rise again.

When care had furrow'd o'er his brow,

And clouded his young hours, She wove, amidst his crown of thorns,

A wreath of love's own flowers.

And never did that wreath decay,

Or one bright floweret wither, For woman's tears e'er nourish'd them

That they might bloom for ever.

'Tis ever thus with woman's love,

True till life's storms are past, And like the vine around the tree,

It braves them to the last.

ANON.

THE CAPTIVE.

STAY, gaoler, stay and hear my woe,

She is not mad who kneels to thee! For what I was too well I know,

And what I am, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair !

My language shall be mild, tho’ sad, But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad ! I am not mad !

My tyrant husband forged the tale

Which chains me in this dismal cell : My fate unknown my friends bewail,

Oh! gaoler, haste that fate to tell !

Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer;

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad, To know though kept a captive here,

I am not mad! I am not mad !

He smiles in scorn and turns the key!

He quits the grate, I knelt in vain ! His glimmering lamp, still, still I see

'Tis gone — and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold! no warmth! no light !

Life, all thy comforts once I had :
Yet, here I'm chain'd, this freezing night,

Altho' not mad ! no, no! not mad !

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,

What I, the child of rank and wealth ; Am I the wretch that clanks this chain,

Deprived of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart ; how burns my head !

But 'tis not mad! no ! 'tis not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this

A mother's face, a mother's tongue; She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck how fast you clung,
Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit your sire denied,
Nor how - I'll drive such thoughts away,

They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone !
None ever bore a lovelier child ! -
And art thou now for ever gone,

And shall I never see thee more,

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad; I will be free, unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad!

Oh hark! what mean those yells and cries?

His chain some furious madman breaks ;
He comes ! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes ;
Help! help!--He's gone --Oh! fearful woe,

Such screams to hear, such sights to see ;
My brain ! my brain ! I know, I know,

I am not mad, but soon shall be !

Yes soon ! for, lo, you! while I speak,

Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare, He sees me— now, with dreadful shriek,

He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crush'd and sad ! Ay, laugh ye fiends! I feel the truth,

Your task is done! I'm mad! I'm mad !

LEWIS.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it! I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears and embalm'd it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell ? a mother sat there !
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

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