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Together, when the school-bell called,
Our willing youthful feet obeyed,
And when the eve grew dim, our heads
Were on the self-same pillow laid
Ah! never more that happy voice
Will cheer me on life's thorny way,
And never more that buoyant frame
Will rise with me at peep of day;
But low within the silent vault,
Beneath the dull and senseless clod,
It rests until that trump shall sound,
The awaking trump of God!

A thought of Mount Auburn.

Miss M. A. Browne.1
Fair land, whose loveliness hath filled
My soul's imaginings,
At whose high names my heart hath thrilled,
Through all its finest strings!
There was a sunny light around
My idlest thought of thee;
I dreamed that thou a hallowed ground,
A fairy land, must be;

1 Of Liverpool. Received by the Editor in reply to a letter communicating the design of this volume.

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