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SONG TO J. B. S.

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SONG TO J. B. S. On tby lov'd form I often dwell, Tho' distant now from thee And thy sweet smile's bewitching spell Is present still to mi. But yet I know that all is Bed, And ev'ry joy now o'er, That life for us is cold and dead, For we shall meet no more. Yet. ah around those moments past There hangs a deep regret: For tho' they fleeted far too fast, We cannot quite forget. Alas! the fading of these days I cease not to deplore They melted like the evening rays, And now-we meet no more. Yet mem'ry still will fondly dwell On those long vanished hours, When wand'ring thro' our fav'rite dell, er We cull'd the sweetest flow'rs. No fragrance now those flow'rs can shed, Their perfume all is o'er Like them, our hearts are cold and dead, We meet-we meet no more. October 9, 1S41. E. G.

TOMKINS'S LETTER TO JENKINS,

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SPIRIT OF THE PRESS.

——«"—— AFFAIRS IN CHINA.

THE M'LEOD CASE—THE APPROACHING…

. YANI; EE ADV ERTISEMENTS.

MONMOUTH R4CES.

[No title]