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The lips may beguile

With a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection 's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soul-telling eye

Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below

Shews the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffus'd in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The Soldier braves death,
For a fanciful wreath,
In glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe,

When in battle laid low,

And bathes ev'ry wound with a Tear.

If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid,

When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth,

Seat of Friendship and Truth,

Where love chas'd each fast-fleeting year;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,

For a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour

To my Mary no more,

My Mary, to Love once so dear;
In the shade of her bow'r,

I remember the hour,

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest

May she live ever blest,

Her name still my heart must revere;
With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is more near,
As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendour of woe,

Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

THELWALL.

ALAS! I am an Orphan Boy,

With nought on earth to cheer my heart:
No father's love, no mother's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to take my part.
My lodging is the cold-cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.

Yet once I had a father dear,

A mother too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear-
If chanc'd a childish tear to rise:
But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee;
And, when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!

But, ah! there came a War, they say-
What is a War I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In troth, it was a pretty sound,

I thought! nor could I thence foresee
That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,.

And sword, as bright as bright could be! And feathers that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound!
Alas! I thought it fine to see;

Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

My mother sigh'd, my mother wept,
My father talk'd of wealth and fame;
But still she wept, and sigh'd, and wept,
Till I, to see her, did the same.
But soon the horsemen throng around,
My father mounts with shout and glee :
Then gave a kiss to all around; wal
And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!

But, when I found he rode so far,
And came not home, as heretofore,
I said it was a naughty War,

And lov'd the fife and drum no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd-
Nor merry tale, nor song had she;
And, when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me.

At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory they said:
'Twas what my father said he'd bring;
But ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd; her heart was woe;
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
Oh, God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.

But once again-but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt;
That once again-that once again-
The tale a heart of stone would melt;

'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,-
(Oh, God! oh, God! that sight to see!)
"My child!-my child!" she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.

So, now, I am an Orphan Boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer:
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold-cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.

But I will to the grave, and weep,
Where late they laid my mother low,
And buried her with earth so deep,

All in her shroud as white as snow.
And there I'll call on her so loud,

All underneath the church-yard tree, To wrap me in her snow-white shroudFor those cold lips are dear to me.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

SOUTHEY.

WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharg'd to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care:

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