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LINES ON READING "A VOICE…

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LINES ON READING "A VOICE FROM THE TOMB," (Ap-oem n'htch Appeared in the lust n umber of the Mmi IN.) Brother, the very air s, ems ident With the message thou hast sent, From thv dark tomh • Those mOtirnfnl winds are cloqueut- They breathe of days too gladly spent With thee at home. Where art thou now, my brother, where ? We miss thee at the hour ot'pray'r. Thy holiness Was as the sun- beam of au r home; Thy very voice, with its deep tone Of tenderness, We may not hope to hear again. We seldom speak of tlite in vain Our lips are mute— Within the heart, and in the brain, Grief, in silence, holds her reign Still absolute. Biother, could we but see thy facc ;— But death has left the tearful trace Of his touch there— That impress which nought can efface. We gaze upon thy vacant place; But thou art—where ?— Ah, where? We knelt around thy bed, And when the spark of life had fled, And thuu wert gone, 'Our mother gently raised thy head, And tears in heavy showers shed O'er thee, her son. How deadly pale was then thy brow Like some fair flower thou wert laid low In thy fresh bloom; There was a dreadful void—but thou Art silently reposing now, In thy cold tomb. Why should we mourn that thou art free ? Yet, would that I had pass'd with thee My brother—friend God deals with us mysteriously His bright designs we may not see, But to them bend. Thy mother murmur'd not,—but oh, The loss of thee hath laid her low— Her smile hath fled. She seems the shadow now of woe It broke her heart to see thee go To thy cold bed. Yes, then the year was in its spring, But to us it did not bring Its wonted mirth. All, all were husli'd and still within— Our very hearts seemed withering 'Round our lone hearth. But now the year is in the wane, The autumn winds still breathe thy name Through our dim halt. We listen to the heavy rain, And gaze upon thy chair again, And sad tears fall. And oh, the books which once were thine, Are sacred now; thy thoughts still shine Through each mark'd leaf; And still their sweetest influence shed O'er our sad tones for thou, the dead, Hast pass'd from grief. My brother, when each distant hill Is dimly seen—when all is still At morn's grey hour, Oh, then my eyes with sad tears fill To think of thee. Though weary, chill, Some secret power Leads me to thy early grave, Where plumes of grass in sileuee wave, Anll soft, low. winds Whisper of all thy innate worth— The faaed form, which the cold earth Darkly enshrines. When daylight's past, and pale stars beam Through waving trees—all then, I dream Of thee alone— Of thee, the last, lamented one— The blest, and oh, the favourite son, From'this world flown. Newport, Nov. 5th. MAKV.

KILRUSII PETTY SESSIONS.j

moM II. A. REYNOLDS, ESQ.,…

[No title]

LORD CARDIGAN AND THE ELEVENTH…

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FOREIGN INTELLIGENCE.

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MISCELLANY. -+-

"J5KGONE, DULL CARL."—Song.

AMATORY KPISTLES.

TO ..LLI18.S. )I

A MORNING VIEW FROM MY BED-ROOM.

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