If I look on Spring’s soft heaven,–
Something is not there which was
Winter’s wondrous frost and snow,
Summer’s clouds, where are they now?
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‘What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?Touch not those leaves which for the eternal fewWho wander o’er the Paradise of fame,In sacred dedication ever grew:One of the crowd thou art without a name.’‘Ah, friend, ’tis the false laurel that I wear;Bright though it seem, it is not the sameAs that which bound Milton’s immortal…
BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;But, as you by their faces see,All silent, and all-damned!Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.Ophelia.-What means this, my lord?Hamlet.-Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.~Shakespeare.PROLOGUEPet er Bells, one, two and three,O’er the wide world wandering be.-First, the antenatal Peter,Wrapped in weeds of the same…
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Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,In which the warm current of love never freezes,As it rises unmingled with selfishness there,Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care,Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise,Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.II.Or where the stern warrior, his country defending,Dares fearless the…
Bright ball of flame that through the gloom of even
And with surpassing glory dimm’st each rayTwinkling amid the dark blue depths of Heaven,–Unlike the fire thou bearest, soon shalt thouFade like a meteor in surrounding gloom,Whilst that, unquenchable, is doomed to glowA watch-light by the patriot’s lonely tomb;A ray of courage to the oppressed and poor;A spark, though gleaming on the hovel’s hearth,Which through…
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Which like thy kisses breathed on me;The colour from the flower is flownWhich glowed of thee and only thee!II.A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,It lies on my abandoned breast,And mocks the heart which yet is warm,With cold and silent rest.III.I weep,–my tears revive it not!I sigh,–it breathes no more on me;Its mute and uncomplaining lotIs such…
I.
Methinks she must be nigh,’Said Mary, as we sateIn dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;And I, who thoughtThis Aziola was some tedious woman,Asked, ‘Who is Aziola?’ How elateI felt to know that it was nothing human,No mockery of myself to fear or hate:And Mary saw my soul,And laughed, and said, ‘Disquiet yourself not;‘Tis…