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FUNEREAL SKETCHES, No. XVII. 

 FALSE LURES. 



A tale of love the village maid 



Shall light the conscious smile, 

 Or seem to turn a careless head 



Deep listening all the while. 

 But well-a-day ! her heart is fled 



From Him, the undefiled, 

 Who hailed the blossom ere it spread, 



Who loved her when a child. 



A tale of hope the mariner 



Through perils doomed to roam 

 His visions of delight refer 



To life, and love and home : 

 Alas ! that hope to be at rest 



Should have no further goal ; 

 Without a bower for the blest, 



Or anchor of the soul. 



Let beauty, ere her life and love 



Have lost their vernal glow, 

 Yield heart and hope to One above 



From whom those blessings flow. 

 And what at best are home and ease, 



Say, traveller of the wave, 

 But a short way o'er troubled seas 



To that last port, the grave. 



No. XVIII. HOW THEY DIED. 



Trust wealth and fame and length of days with him 

 That marks the sparrow's fall : 



Erewhile then lived 

 The kinsman of a youth that was to me 

 As brother to the orphan ; he beheld, 

 Childless himself the scions of a line 

 Something below patrician not his own 

 Equal in either. From his flock and herd 

 The fields he trod in childhood, or the town 

 Whence homeward weekly trod his plodding wain 

 Fancy ne'er led him. By his blazing hearth 

 VOL. in. 1834. BB 



