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From A Tour in Germany and some of the Southern Provinces of the

Austrian Empire."

FADING, still fading, the last beam is shining;
Ave Maria ! day is declining.
Safety and innocence fly with the light,
Temptation and danger walk forth with the night ;
From the fall of the shade, till the matin shall chime,
Shield us from danger, and save us from crime.

Ave Maria ! audi nos.

Ave Maria ! hear when we call,
Mother of him, who is brother of all:
Feeble and failing, we trust in thy might;
In doubting and darkness, thy love be our light;
Let us sleep on thy breast, while the night-taper burns,
And wake in thine arms, when the morning returns.

Ave Maria ! audi nos.


From Joanna Baillie's Collection of Poemę.


NAY, sister, what hast thou to boast

Of joy ? a poor reciter thou,
Whose happiest thought is but the ghost

Of some past pleasure vanish'd now.
When better things may not be found,

By sad reflecting, weary men,
They on thy records look around,

Their only friend, and only then.


Then on delight for ever fled

They cast a melancholy view, Where, as on pictures of the dead,

The likeness makes the sorrow true. But could'st thou from thy page

efface What brings regret, remorse, or shame, Nor all our wandering steps retrace,

Then mortals might endure thy name.

And what art thou, vain Hope ? a cheat :

For didst thou ever promise make,
That either time did not defeat

Or some intruding evil break ? Or

say that chance has prov'd thee true, The expected joy shall be thy own; No sooner comes the good in view,

But Hope herself, is lost and gone.

Soon as the hop'd-for thing appears,

That was with such delight pursued, Another aspect then it wears,

And is no more the fancied good. So 'tis in dreams, men keenly chase

A something lov'd, desir'd, caress'd; They overtake, and then embrace

That which they loathe, despise, detest.

Truie, sister, true! in every age

Will men in thy delusions share; And thou a lasting war wilt wage

With Wisdom's joy and Reason's care. Who comes to thee? the rash, the bold,

The dreaming bard, the sighing youth: For what? for fame, for love, for gold,

And they receive thy tales for truth.

Emmas and Lauras at thy shrine

Attend, and deem thy answers true, And, calling Hope a power divine,

Their Corydons and Damons view. And girls at school and boys at taw,

Seduced by thy delusive skill, Think life is love, and love is law,

And they may choose just whom they will.


Say is not mine the early hold

On man? whose heart I make my own

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Struck by the palsy's powerful blow,

By the hir'd hands of servants led, Cold, tottering, impotent, and slow,

Borne to the board, and to the bed, Hear how the ancient trembler prays,

Smit with the love of lingering here ! “ Hold yet my thread, flow on my days,

“ Nor let the last sad morn appear !" The sage physician feels my aid

Most when he knows not what to do: I whisper then, “ Be not afraid,

“ For I inspire thy patient too."

Vain of thy victories, thus misled

Thy power I own; alas ! I fear,
It is this syren song I dread

Which wretches long and die to hear.
No ears are stopt, no limbs are bound,

Impatient to thy coast they fly,
And soon as heard thy witching sound,

They rest, they sleep, they dream, they die.

A poet once the tribe are thine,

But yet I would my counsel give,And said, “ 'Tis naught! the work decline :

“ Thou once hast fail'd, this will not live." Deeply he sighed, and thou wert by,

To fan the half-extinguish'd fire: “ Try once again,” thou saidst, " oh! try,

« For now shall all the world admire."

And how, I pray, can this be wrong?

The man has clear and certain gain ?
For when the world condemns his song,

He can condemn the world again. Inspired by me, in strains sublime

Shall many a gifted genius write, For mine is that bewitching rhyme

That shall the wondering world delight.

Yes, thou hast slumbers light and vain,

And mayst, I grant, a poet boast;
I cannot show so large a train,

But I have one, and he an host,

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