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ORIGINAL POETRY. 



Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 

 Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? 

 Ah ! who can give to others' woes his sigh, 

 Secure his own will never need it too 1 



KIRKE WHITE. 



IT cannot last ! It cannot last ! 



This sickness of the heart ; 



For it wakes and weeps o'er the faded past, 



And is willing to depart. 



It cannot last ! It cannot last ! 

 The grief that fills me now; 

 Soon will my life-blood welling fast, 

 In death array my brow. 



It cannot last ! Yet while life's dream 

 Brings sorrow and dismay, 

 My storm-toss'd bark shall brave the storm, 

 Though death command the way. 



life ! thy sea is never calm, 

 Its billows never rest ; 



Thou ne'er giv'st peace, nor healing balm, 

 To those thou hast opprest. 



O'er youth thou throw'st a smiling ray, 

 But as it bursts in bloom, 

 Thy storms appear, and it fades away 

 Like a flower, into the tomb. 



The kindling hopes which manhood feels 

 In the plenitude of years, 

 Droop as thy blight upon them steals, 

 And sink with heavy cares. 



Yet o'er thy waves, though never still, 

 Dark storms not always sweep ; 

 There may burst beams of joy to fill 

 The hearts of those that weep. 



Then farewell life ! A long farewell, 

 Thou spell that binds my breath ! 



1 seek no requiem in thy knell 

 But rest from thee O, Death ! 



E. W. G. 



