The token : a Christmas and New Year's present . cloud! its dim bosom receives me! What through its dull mist do I see?Proud citj! I 11 shun thy dark border; I wish not to fall amidst thee. Kind Wind! waft me farther, I pray the breast of yon flowing tide; Let me fall on its soft silver with its bright waters I 11 glide; 120 THE TOKEN. Then I 11 float to the far green ocean,Where the Zephyr and whirlwind fly. Till the sunbeam shall be my lover,And I go to my own blue sky. E. W. T. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. The hand that late in friendships grasp Was warm and true to mine. Now
The token : a Christmas and New Year's present . cloud! its dim bosom receives me! What through its dull mist do I see?Proud citj! I 11 shun thy dark border; I wish not to fall amidst thee. Kind Wind! waft me farther, I pray the breast of yon flowing tide; Let me fall on its soft silver with its bright waters I 11 glide; 120 THE TOKEN. Then I 11 float to the far green ocean,Where the Zephyr and whirlwind fly. Till the sunbeam shall be my lover,And I go to my own blue sky. E. W. T. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. The hand that late in friendships grasp Was warm and true to mine. Now lies in deaths cold, mouldering clasp. Submissive and supine. The eye that shone so calmly blue. And deep as yonder sky. As if a world of thought it knew. Is closed for aye. And the cheek that kindled with fresh feeling. As the hills redden into day. The dawn of every sentiment revealing. Is now unconscious clay. The lip is mute, and the silent breast A lonely house within. And the spirit away in the land of rest Forgets this world of sin. G. \. L ;gfo©oajJUVJIl^^^Blr TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD. BY MRS SIQOURKE T. I ROVED where Thames old oceans breast doth cheer,Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen,What time dim Twilights silent step was gathering dews impearled the margin green;Yet though mild Autumn, with a smile gently fostered Summers lingering bloom,Methought strange sadness brooded oer the scene,While the deep river, murmuring on in gloom,Mourned oer its sweetest bard laid early in the tomb. His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere,Of each ungenerous deed his high disdainPerchance the world might scan with eye severe;Perchance his harp her guerdon failed to gain;But Nature guards his fame, for not in vainHe sang her shady dells, and mountains hoar—King Philips swelling bay repeats his strainTo its lone tower, and with eternal roarNiagara bears it round to the wide-echoing 122 THE TOKEN. Each sylvan haunt he loved—the
Size: 1414px × 1768px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade18, booksubjectgiftbooks, bookyear1830
