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THE VALE OF LANHERNE. 



In our last we presented to our readers some of the 

 fugitive pieces appended to Mr. Stokes' ** Vale of 

 Lanherne/' the following extracts are fair specimens 

 of the principal poem. 



Oh ! happy, happy privilege is theirs, 

 Who near their loved familiar dust abide : 

 The Grave speaks home to all ; when unawares 

 The traveller, turning from his course aside, 

 Glances some rude memorial stone, tears glide. 

 Sad memory's tribute to the rustic muse, 

 Or swells his heart with sympathetic pride. 

 Thrice blest are they who, as the week renews, 

 Slow to the Sabbath chime the dear memoir peruse. 



Not mine — oh ! not for me the hallowed task. 

 Far scatter'd wide my kin like storm -strewn leaves ; 

 Some where on Europe's rock the scorpions bask. 

 O'er some the Indian cyprus darkly weaves, 

 And mounds for some the Arctic snow-fall heaves; 

 And one, best loved, how hurried to his bier ! 

 Oh God ! thus snatch 'd away death twice bereaves; 

 But one of nine to shed a filial tear, 

 A widowed mother's moan unsoothed on wild Tangier. 



These, these are sorrows ; learn of me how sweet. 

 Though bitter sweet, unto tlie long last home 

 To follow the dear dead with lingering feet ; 

 How sweet, though bitter sweet, within the dome 

 Where Christians pray, while friendly gazers come. 

 To hear the blessed hopes of endless life ! 

 Yes, learn of me that they afar who roam 

 In quest of lucre have a dismal strife, 

 To them life's chequer *d path with twofold sorrows rife. 



The long last home ? ah me J I cannot deem 



The grave a home where strangers' ashes lie; 



Homeless to me the wretched corses seem 



Of all who distant from their country die : 



In vain for them the southern breezes sigh 



'Mid dark-leaved boughs that yield perennial shade ; 



let the light that filled the infant eye 



