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ORIGINAL POETRY. 



There is no memory of his fate, 



No record of his name ; 



A few wild songs are left behind, 



But what are they to fame"? L. E. L. 



THE deep-toned knell again hath rung 



Its melancholy chime ; 

 And the funeral hymn again been sung, 



For the young in manhood's prime. 



Yet he heard it not, nor stayed 



His earth-freed spirit's flight, 

 Through airy halls in glory 'ray'd 



To gaze on mortal light ! 



His soul dwelt on the beautiful, 



On earth and things above ; 

 He drank their glories, and was full 



Of sympathy and love. 



The sorrowful ne'er slept in him, 



In scenes of joy, or gloom, 

 And he ill could hide what hurried him, 



Untimely to the tomb. 



His restless spirit was not formed 



For life's calm, quiet stream ; 

 It sighed, it struggled, and it burned 



For fame's ideal dream. 



Hard, hard he fought, he struggled hard 



'Gainst penury's cold blight ; 

 But his wasted form unequal warr'd 



With his daring spirit's might. 



He knew but few, and no one cheer'd 



The sadness of his heart ; 

 He had no friend that was endear'd, 



His sorrows to impart. 



Yet still he toiled, nor thought of rest 



His wearied frame to ease ; 

 For his heart was broken, and oppress'd, 



And nought it could appease. 



He sank at last, yet dying, toiled, 



Nor deem'd life ebbed so fast ; 

 But slow decay was never foiled 



Nor e'er its victim past. 



Perchance, his was the common fate 



That sweeps the loved away ; 

 That circles all things, small, or great, 



Nor falters on its way 1 



Yet that fate shall wake our sympathies, 



Like the spring- dream of our youth ; 

 For youth's dominion never dies, 



When blent with simple truth ! E. W. G 



