SONNET.—THE COMET.
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BY WM. ALEXANDER.
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Upon what deed of hazardous emprise,
Bold Comet, dost thou come? From vistas deep
Of space, thou hurriedly dost sweep,
Self-shining, with thy trail athwart the skies,
To greet the golden sun. Nor comest thou
Alone—a myriad more press on thy track,
In wild excursion; soon to measure back
The ebon distances. Come, tell us, now,
Why unannounced, strange visitant! once more,
So suddenly thou burstest on our sight,
A terror at mid-day—a wonder of the night?
Precursor of red war, then, dost thou soar,
Or monitor of wo? Peculiar Fire!
Thy presence can in us no confidence inspire.
FANCIES FROM A GARRET.
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BY GEO. CANNING HILL.
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