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When the heart that slowly dies
Struggles with unbidden sighs,
Sweet the melting lay that throws
Bland oblivion o'er its woes.
When o'er strings that long have bled,
When, o'er chords to pleasure dead,
Dulcet music softly steals,
Oh! what rapture Sorrow feels!
Lady, cease!—that strain divine
Mocks the bliss that once was mine!
Lady! such the look she wore:
Tune thy voice to love no more!
Lady! guard thy tender heart
From the syren's venom'd dart;
Though celestial bliss it brings,
Oh! how mad’ning are its stings!
Touch the magic chords again:
Friendship shall employ the strain.
But the reign of love is o'er!
Tune thy voice to love no more!


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The following versification was from the pen of a very young, an interesting woman, in reply to the solicitations of her family not to accompany her unfortunate husband into exile.

The lovely author of these lines, whose beauty can only be exceedd by her retiring modesty, is wholly unconscious of their publication, and we well know will blush at a celebrity which the accomplishments of her mind, the graces of her person, and the misfortunes of her destiny, have rendered inevtable.

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Still, still undaunted will I be,
And find the holiest calm with thee.
That people whom thou call'st thy own,
Shall only to my heart be known,
And our great Father, God, above,
With equal warmth we both will love.

Where'er thy last expiring breath,
Is yielded to relentless Death,
On that same spot will Charlotte die,
And in the tomb, thy Charlotte lie.
The Lord do this, and more to me,
If more than this, part thee from me,
As living, but one heart we own,
So dying, we will still be ONE.



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THERE is a spot where slow decays
The wreck of former, better days;
Where, blasted by inclement skies,
A noble ruin wasting lies.
There is an hour when insects play
And flutter in the blaze of day;
But shun to court the hallow'd gloom
That sheds its shelter on the tomb.
There is an hour to sorrow dear
When Pity sheds her tend'rest tear;
When moon-beams kiss the mould'ring pile,
And gild its features with a smile.
The tear of love that seeks to lave
T'he turf that hides Misfortune's grave
Shall bless the spot where slow decays
The wreck of former, better days!


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Go, idle lays!
Tell her whose youthful heart beats high

To future days
That now so fair in prospect lie,
How soon our dearest transports die.

Tell her whose cheek
The blush of conscious pleasure wears,

That they who seek
To find delights unmix'd with cares
Shall own the fond deceit in tears.

Say that while charms
Which Hebe's transient presence lends

The bosom warms,
Time's envious breath the canker sends
That youth's enchanting season ends.

To her whom health
With ruddy blushes high illumes,

Say that by stealth
Disease to palid wrinkles dooms,
The cheek that now so sweetly blooms.

Tell her whose form
The partial hand of Beauty gave,

That from the worm
Kind Pity's touch shall never save
The charms that moulder in the grave!

Go, idle lays!
Tell her whose youthful heart beats high

To future days
That now so fair in prospect lie,
How soon our dearest transports die!

Then softly say
That, when terrestrial joys and pains

Shall melt away,
The soul, absolv'd from sensual stains,
Shall soar where bliss immortal rcigns!


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The town of Bristol, romantically situated on one of the most verdant margins of the Delaware, is one of those enchanting spots in the bosom of nature, on which the philosopher, the lover, the studious and the social, with equal rapture repose. Separated from Burlington on the Jersey side, the eye of the painter, the poet, and the enthusiast is at freshed and recreated by all the sylvan honours of Bristol. Among its rural joys, at this enchanting season, the liberal establishment which the taste and judgment of Dr. Minnick have conspired' to enhance in the estimation of the man of pleasure, or the victim of disease, may be justly enumerated. The mineral spring, which the analysis of science has demonstrated so salutary to many a sufferer; the sporting country in the vicinage, so gladsome to the robust hunter, or the patient fisherman; the variegated landscape, the aliment of the naturalist; the bird's eye view of Burlington, the delight of every traveller, every scholar, and every friend, all unite to convince him, whose soul is corroded by the cares of a crowded city, that here, at least for a season, something like contentment, some



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