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Till one stern stroke of all my state,

Of all my bliss bereft me;
And I was worse than desolate,

For God himself had left me.

Ye, too, as life itself beloved,

When all conspired to bliss me,
I deemed ye friends,_but ye have proved,

The foes who most oppress me.
I could have borne the slave's rude scorn,

The wreck of all I cherished:
Had one,—but one,—remained to mourn

O'er me, when I too perished.

My children sleep in death's cold shade,

And nought can now divide them;
Oh I would the same wild storm had laid

Their wretched sire beside them!
I had not then been doomed to see

The loss of all who love me;
Unbroken would my slumbers be,

Though none had wept above me.

All hope on earth for ever fled,

A higher hope remaineth;
E'en while his wrath is o'er me shed,

I know my Saviour reigneth.



The worm may waste this withering clay,
When flesh and spirit sever;

My soul shall see eternal day,
And dwell with God for ever.




This is my Natal Day! to me, the thought

Awakens serious musings, and the sigh

Of softened recollection. Heretofore,

This day has ne'er returned, since manhood shaped

My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe

Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave

Of hope's delicious phantasies. This day

Has ne'er returned, not finding me possesed

Of her, whose parent-claims to love were lost

In friendship's mightier attributes! O God I

And I am doomed this very day to know

Those dreams, hope's phantasies, and my first friend,

For ever gone!

—It boots not to complain; Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts,

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Muse calmly on life's desolated path!

As the way-wanderer, who the onward track

Gazes nnanxious, though the bleak day fade—

Though the wet winds sweep chilly; and the bark

Of shepherd's watch-dog, from the far-off hill,

Die on the gusty blast, if he reflect

That still in scenes remote, a goodly home

Awaits his wearied feet. Yes, so can I

Look on life's waste with the composed smile

Of resignation, (though amid that waste,

For me no floweret blossom,) hoping yet

To enter the abode where tears are wiped

From every eye, where the dear buried friend

Shall recognise her long-bewildered child!

Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance
A pilgrim, like myself, cross the drear scene
1 needs must tread, mingle with his my tears
For this bad world—beguile the little hour

tVith what my spirit from its scanty store

May spare, in kindliest sort, to entertain
One haply not unsuffering;—then pursue
My simple path, nor let the woes or joys
Of weak, self-satisfied humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul.
Enough, if I the vacant moment soothe
With social intercourse !_—'Tis not in man

To fill the aching breast! My God, thou knowest
How the heart pines that rests on human love.

C. Lloyd.


There is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day:
There children dwell, who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there:
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows, with unheeded tears,
And crippled age, with more than childhood fears!
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve:
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below:
Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for rained age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;

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