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FROM
POEMS ; BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

TALES OF THE HALL, VOL. III. SOFTLY she left her door, her garden gate, And seemed as then committed to her fate; To every horrid thought and doubt a prey, She hurried on, already lost her way: Oft as she glided on in that sad night, She stopped to listen and she looked for light. The inoon was risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed, That ber soft light imprisoned, and then freed ; The fitful glimmering through the hedge-row green, Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. To these she listened ; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling tu ber soul appeared; There were low lengthened tones, with sobs between, And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen ; She hurried on, and “ Who is there?" she cried, “ A dying wretch !"- was from the earth replied. It was her lover-it was the man she gave, The price she paid, himself from death to save; With whom, expiring, she must kneel and pray, While the soul fitted from the shivering clay, That pressed the dewy ground, and bled its life away!

Smugglers and Poachers, Book XXI. page 203. No. 40.

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OH! I have loitered' at thy gate,

And fanned young Hope's delusive fire; And though convinced 'twas vain to wait,

Still something bade me not retire. Each distant footfall that I caught,

Amidst the stillness of the night, Cooceptive Fancy idly thought

The fond forerunner of delight. And every taper's twinkling ray

That glanced aloft from room to room, Seemed kindly to command my stay,

And still my weary watch resume. And every bolt that cautious care

Within tlie rusty staple drew, Moved not predictive of despair,

But moments blessed witli love and you. Oft to the wicket have I ran,

Deceived by some approaching tread; But, ah! it was not thee, my Ann,

That o'er the gravelly pathway sped. Then back upon my throbbing breast

The tide of joy hath coldly rushed; And whilst a sigh my pain confess'd,

My cheek with conscious shame hath blushed. Oft through the misty vale of eve,

A feeting shadow hath beguiled;
But, ah! it only came, to leave

My heart more desolate and wild!
The woodbine's faunting boughs have been

To me thy bonnet's waving plume;
And in the silvery birch I've seen

Thy light form glimmering through the gloom.

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No keen regret, no sullying shade,

On Mensory's record ihen would live,., But every pang be overpaid

By raptures--thou alone canst give! February 24, 1821.

CHARLES FEIST.

1

STANZAS
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
NAY, weep not so, dispel this gloom,

Nor sink beneath thy weight of care ;" ***
But let thy face once more assume

The smile that it was wont to wear.'
Let friendship's voice thy pillow smooth,

And lull thy troubled thoughts to rest
Mine be the task thy griefs to soothe,

And calm the torments of thy breast.
For I have deeply drank of woe;

But now, thank God! those days are o’er;
And thine will pass, for well we kitow

The hand that smites can also cure.
'Tis by afflictions we are brought

To yield the world, and flee to God ; --
By disappointments we are taught,

With souls resigned, 10" kiss the rou."
Sweet

is the sympathetic sigh-,
And thou hast heaved that sigh for me ;
Mourned for my sorrows, and shall I

Refuse to shed one tear for thee ?
Ah no, dear girl! thou kuow'st my heart

In joy, in grief, to thine has clung :
Yes, we have each sustained our part,

Together wept, together sung.
The poets talk of Lethe's stream,

And tell us 'tis a cure for woe;
But, oh! 'tis all an idle dream,

They know vot where its waters flow.
There a stream in heaven,

.
Which peces sin, and purges pain;
And they to whom this stream is given
To drink, shall“ never thirst again.'

AVANDA.

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