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ART AND TACT.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;

Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

RETRIBUTION.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

TRUTH.

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle

but a torch's fire,

Ha! how soon they all are silent!

Truth silences the liar.

Thus

RHYMES.

Ir perhaps these rhymes of mine sound not well in strangers' ears,

They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ;

For so long as words, like mortals, call a father-land their own,

They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.

CURFEW.

I.

SOLEMNLY, mournfully,
Dealing its dole,

The Curfew Bell

Is beginning to toll.

Cover the embers,

And put out the light;
Toil comes with the morning,
And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows,
And quenched is the fire;
Sound fades into silence,
All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers,

No sound in the hall!

Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all!

II.

The book is completed,

And closed, like the day;

And the hand that has written it Lays it away.

Dim grow its fancies;

Forgotten they lie;

Like coals in the ashes,
They darken and die.

Song sinks into silence,
The story is told,

The windows are darkened,

The hearth-stone is cold.

Darker and darker

The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all.

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

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