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Yet she sometimes fondly and sadly took
Of my sorrowing face a farewell look,
And then turned away her brigbt'ning eye,
And again addressed the throne on high,
And death came on her like the gentle sleep
Of an innocent child, so calm and deep;
And she lay there like a pale young flower,
Lovely and fair in her dying hour;
And, Oh! it was beautiful to see,
A soul thus pass to eternity.



Oft have I thought, if I should die,
And leave the place of love I hold,

Oblivion soon the tear might dry,

And hearts, now warm for me, grow cold.

How would my inmost soul be chilled,
Could it, that back to life I came,

And found the seat I left was filled,
Myself remembered but in name.

No room for me by hearth or board,
No thought for me in bead or breast,

Felt e'en by those I most adored,
An undesired intruding guest.

Well I such may be—yet in my heart
Full many a still loved dead one dwells,

Them no new loves shall bid depart,
Nor e'er usurp their sacred cells.

A smile should light them as they came,
(And fain would I their steps recal,)

And they should find me yet the same,
The kiss for some—the heart for all.—



Children of God, who, pacing slow,

Your pilgrim path pursue,
In strength and weakness, joy and woe,

To God's high calling true.—

Why move ye thus—with lingering tread,

A doubtful mournful band?
Why faintly hangs the drooping head?

Why fails the feeble hand?

Oh! wish to know the Saviour's power,

To feel a father's care;
A moment's toil, a passing shower

Is all the grief ye share.

The Lord of Light, though veiled awhile,

He hides his noon-day ray,
Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile

To gild the closing day;

And bursting through the dusky shroud,

That dared his power invest,
Ride throned in light o'er every cloud,

And guide you to his rest.

Bowdler. THE ROSE.

A rose in yonder garden grew

In summer beauty bright;
It fed upon the fragrant dew,

And bathed in beams of light.
The gentlest zephyrs still would creep

Warm o'er it from the west;
And the night spirit loved to weep

Upon its beauteous breast;
And all the host of insect beaux
Would pause to trifle with the rose.

Alas! the flower,—one fatal night,

The mildew rode the gale, And from his pinions scattered blight

O'er garden, bower, and vale. I saw it in the sunny mom,

'Twas dying on its stem; Yet wore, though drooping and forlorn,

Its dewy diadem! But every roving butterfly Looked on the rose and wandered by! The beams of morning had no power

Upon its faded cheek;
The breezes came, and found the flower,

They once had loved, a wreck.
They were old friends, and when they fled

Who used to linger here,
The rose would bow its gentle head

And shake away a tear:
But never raised its timid eye
To gaze again upon the sky.

It withered in the noon-day (lamp.

And when the shadows fell, The spirit of the evening came,

Bu,t vain its d«wy spell.
The moon gleamed sad, the night breeae sighed,

Above the hapless flower,
But none who loved its day of pride

Watched o'er its fading hour.
The flatterers—they had long be«n gone,
It died neglected and alone. ,


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