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And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight or sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills

Is that his grave is green ;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

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A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND

COME, take our boy, and we will go
Before our cabin-door;

The winds shall bring us, as they blow,
The murmurs of the shore ;

And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore:

I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat,

Thy country's tongue shall teach; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet

Than my own native speech :
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,

Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet;

Ah! well for me they won thy gaze-
But thine were fairer yet!
I'm glad to see my infant wear
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair;
And when my sight is met

By his white brow and blooming cheek,
I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come talk of Europe's maids with me,
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,
Outshine the beauty of the sea,

White foam and crimson shell.
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,
A sight to please thee well:
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls,

We lose the pleasant hours;

"Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,That seat among the flowers.

And I will learn of thee a prayer

To Him who gave a home so fair,

A lot so blest as ours

The God who made for thee and me
This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

ΙΟ

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THE FIRMAMENT

AYE! gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundless firmament !
That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall,
Dost overhang and circle all.

Far, far below thee, tall grey trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze
In the fierce light and cold.

The eagle soars his utmost height,
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.

Thou hast thy frowns-with thee on high
The storm has made his airy seat,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie

His stores of hail and sleet.

Thence the consuming lightnings break,
There the strong hurricanes awake.

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern:
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles,
A shout at their return.

The glory that comes down from thee
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine,

The pomp that brings and shuts the day,
The clouds that round him change and shine,
The airs that fan his way.

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there
The meek moon walks the silent air.

ΙΟ

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The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,

May thy blue pillars rise,

I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.

And they are fair-a charm is theirs,

That earth, the proud green earth, has not—
With all the forms, and hues, and airs,
That haunt her sweetest spot.

We gaze upon the calm pure sphere,
And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh, when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,
How willingly we turn us then

Away from this cold earth,
And look into thy azure breast,
For seats of innocence and rest!

'I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID DEVOTION'

I CANNOT forget with what fervid devotion

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I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame : Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, 'Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering long; How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full bosom,

When o'er me descended the spirit of song.

'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, Where the kingfisher screamed and grey precipice glistened,

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All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene;

Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing, From the gloom of the thickets that over me hung, And the thoughts that awoke in that rapture of feeling

Were formed into verse as they rose to my tongue. Bright visions! I mixed with the world, and ye faded; No longer your pure rural worshipper now; In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow.

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In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain,
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain,
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain,
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain.
Oh, leave not, forlorn and for ever forsaken,

Your pupil and victim to life and its tears!
But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken
The glories ye showed to his earlier years.

TO A MOSQUITO

FAIR insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,

Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint;
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honour of so proud a birth-
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;

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