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To snatch the child from instant death,
Some braved the threatening main, And to recall his fleeting breath
Tried every art in vain.
But when the corse had met her view,
Stretched on the pebbly strand, Roused from her exstacy she flew,
And pierced th' opposing band.
With tresses discomposed and rude,
Fell prostrate on the ground, To the infant's lips, her lips she glued,
And sorrow burst its bound.
Now throwing round a troubled glance,
With madness' ray inflamed,
She wildly thus exclaimed:
'Heard ye the helpless infant scream?
Saw ye the mother bold? How, as she flung him in the stream,
The billows o'er him rolled?
'But soft, awhile—see! there he lies,
Embalmed in infant sleep;
What cause is here to weep?
'Yes, yes—his little life is fled,
His heaveless breast is cold;
When thy sad tale is told!
'Ah me! that cheek of livid hue—
Those lips where late the roses blew,
'Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein—
A voice in accents wild, Thunders to this distracted brain,
Matilda slew her child!'
She added not—but sunk oppressed,
Death on her eye-lids stole;
She sighed her tortured soul.
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
There's nothing dark, below, above,
DEATH OF A BELIEVER.
O think, that while you're weeping here,
His hand a golden harp is stringing;
And think, that all his pains are fled,
While He, whose blood for man was shed,
Has placed upon his servant's head
And think, that (in that awful day,
The form that, 'midst its kindred clay,
Your trembling hands prepare to lay,
Then weep no more for him, who's gone
But on that great High Priest alone,
Who can for guilt like ours atone,
For thus, while round your lowly bier
Surviving friends are sadly bending,
Faith lightest pinions lending.
And thus, when to the silent tomb