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His eyes our pride, his limbs our decent care,
His gentle mouth, his clean and silky hair,
His round and restless hands, that warmed and slid
In ours—his feet still running where we bid—
His arms that drew him to his mother's breast,
His lips that kissed her when he went to rest—
The graceful, tender, carriage of his joy,
When she came forth, led by her darling boy,
Who, as the morning grew, and she lay sleeping,
Was looking, listening, and on tip-toe creeping,
Restless, yet checking his solicitude,
Lest aught should reach her of disturbance rude—
Then springing like a bird, when gleamed her eye,
That her first sight on his blest smile might lie.

At last it came—and something told its coming!
As midnight drew, we heard, or felt a humming,
As if on muffled wheels approached a Power
That could dismay our souls, and blot the hour!
We knew a fatal presence in the room,
And knew that it was come to take our boy;
From shadowy wings there seemed to spread a gloom.
To make existence pant, and smother joy:
A freezing instinct told us death was near;
Our hearts shrieked inwardly in mortal fear.;

Yet we were mute—and on the sufferer's bed
We threw ourselves, and held his breathing head;—
Held him, as one who drowns, holds to the sand.
That crumbles as he cl'ngs—and falls about his hand.

» # * * * *

We marked the time, and shuddering said 'twas well,
That sulky midnight struck the fatal knell,
And that, while others took their joy, or sleep,
We o'er his corse a chilly watch should keep;
We faced the blast the more we felt it pierce,
And dared the lightning as we saw it fierce.
We hugged ourselves that we had not one face
To look to now, in this great foreign place:
And when we thought of home, 'twas with a start,
As if it were the world's detested part;
Yet this was new—for formerly 'twas sweet
To sit and think when he and they should meet.
• * # # * #

Then fare thee well! though still to thee, sweet child!
Thy father looked, to feel thy spirit mild
Come on his heart, perturbed thoughts to soothe,
As oil upon the water steals to smooth;
Though the soft breathings of thy happy sleep,
Heard in the morning as he wakeful lay,
Seemed, like commissioned whisperings, to creep.
Finding to purity and peace the day;

Although thou taught'st him more than he could teach

In turn to thee—and to his wants gave more

Than thy youth's weakness ever did beseech;

And though no power thy presence can restore—

Yet, since the loss is ours—the gain is thine—

Since thou, perhaps, may'st elsewhere brighter shine—

We will despair—but we will cot repine.

Farewell, on earth! I firmly say farewell!
Though back upon me falls the echoing knell;
A groan of emptiness from what was full—
A wail of gloominess from what was fair;
Although the utterance seems my soul to pull,
To dissipate it with the word in air!
Farewell to thee is an adieu to all—
My portion here hath still been scant and small,
Till thou wast given, a treasure to my need,
In whose enjoyment I was rich indeed:
And now I'm left again—poor—very poor!
Condemned without an object to endure,
Seeking to rest, yet forced to stumble through:
Life's picture sinks into one jaundiced hue—
The foreground stormy, and the distance dark—
A covering deluge, but without an ark.

John Scott, Esq BEAUTY.


Oh! brighter than the brightest star,

That glimmers through the haze of night,

When the blue vault of heaven afar
Is studded o'er with silver light;

And brighter than that brilliant sky,

May be the glance of woman's eye.


Oh! lovely as the golden ray

Of sunshine sleeping on the glade,

When morning brightens into day,
And in its radiance melts the shade;

And lovelier than that gorgeous sun, •

May be the smile from woman won.

Hi. But beauty shines not, may not shine,

In brightness from a woman's eye; Nor does she in a smile recline,

Blooming, as flowerets do, to die.

All earth-bom charms shall fade in death,
Nor change nor ruin beauty hath.


She dwells but in the pious mind,

Apart for ever from decay,
Where lives the light of heavenly kind,

That shines ' unto the perfect day.'
Where faith and hope their joy impart,
Her home is in the virtuous heart.

William Anderson.


Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Rowland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:

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