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'Tis morn ; and see, my smiling boy

Awakes to hail returning light,To fearless laughter, -boundless joy,

Forgot the tears of yesternight. Thus shall not man forget his wo?

Survive of age and death the gloom? Smile at the cares he knew below?

And renovated, burst the tomb? 0, my Creator! when thy will

Shall stretch this frame on earth's cold bed, Let that blest hope sustain me still,

'Till thought, sense, memory--all are fled. And, grateful for what thou may’st give,

No tear shall dim my fading eye, That 'twas thy pleasure I should live,

That 'tis thy mandate bids me die. Crabbe.



An Eagle once, while soaring high
In regal grandeur through the sky,

With jealousy espied
Two mortals, who had come to share
The bird's own kingdom of the air,

In solitary pride.
High 'bove the clouds, they knew no fear,
Thro' fields of snow their swift career

The Eagle view'd with mirth;
For soon the


which held them there Escap’d, and left the luckless pair

To find their way to earth.


The bird who mark'd their rapid fall,
Then laughing cried, “Thus perish all

Who'd vainly hope to rise
Above the sublunary sphere
Allotted by their Maker here,

Far into other skies.'


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SLEEP, my lov'd girl, thy mother's breast
Shall be the pillow of thy rest,
Sleep, my lov'd girl—thy mother's knee
And folding arms shall cradle thee;
And she will lull thee with her song,
Thy gentle slumbers to prolong.
Thy sleep no fearful vision knows,
No cares disturb thy soft repose;
Thy guardian angel spreads his wings,
And dreams from heavenly regions brings:
0, who can tell how bright they be,
The heavenly dreams of infancy.
And as I watch the beamy smile
That plays upon thy face the while,
I feel its influence to


heart A soft pervading peace impart; Chasing dull care with magic spell And whispering, “All will yet be well.” O, all is well! the trusting soul Sees the kind hand that rules the whole; And, while such gifts from bounteous Heaven, As thou, my lovely babe, are given, The way, however dark and rude, With much of ill, has much of good.



I must tune up my heart-broken string,

For the fair has commanded the strain; But yet such a theme will I sing,

That I think she'll not ask me again. For I'll tell her— Youth's blossom is flown,

And that Beauty, the flower, must fade; (And sure if a lady can frown,

She'll frown at the words I have said.) The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet!

They come, and as quickly they fly: The violet how modest and sweet!

Yet the Spring sees it open and die.
How snow-white the lily appears !

Yet the life of a lily's a day;
And the snow that it equals, in tears

To-morrow must vanish away.
Ah, Beauty of all things on earth

How many thy charms most desire ! Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth,

And Beauty with Youth must expire. Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale,

That my song my sorrow I steep; And where I intended to rail,

I must lay down my harp, and must weep. But Virtue indignantly seiz’d

The harp as it fell from my hand; Serene was her look, though displeas’d,

As she utter'd her awful command.



*Thy tears and thy pity employ

For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain,* But those who my blessings enjoy

• Thy tears and thy pity disdain. *For Beauty alone ne'er bestow'd

Such a charm as Religion has lent; * And the cheek of a belle never glow’d

« With a smile like the smile of content. "Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage,

No hue, no complexion can brave: For Beauty must yield to old-age, But I will not yield to the grave.

Rev. Charles Wolfe.

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In verdant spring, the breeze which gently blew
Woke in the heart blithe echoes as it past,
Young Hope's fond flatteries, whisp’ring all would
But wing'd with pleasures, fresh, and fair, and new,
And bright, and lovely-Oh! how Spring-time flew!
Then like full manhood bursting from a boy,
Summer shone out,-so rife in flowery joy,
That scarce the bosom own’d what well it knew,
How soon pale Autumn, like a dying friend,
Engendering solemn thoughts of life's decay,
Would come, and—withering—withering-day by

Bring dark December, on, and lo! the end !
Leafless, and fruitless, the year's pride is gone ;
And wintry Man looks round, and finds himself



The School-Boy had been rambling all the day, A careless, thoughtless idler,—till the night Came

on, and warn’d him homeward :—then he left The meadows, where the morning had been pass'd, Chasing the butterfly, and took the road Toward the cottage where his mother dwelt. He had her parting blessing, and she watch'd Once more to breathe a welcome to her child, Who saunter'd lazily—ungrateful boy !Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth; And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown, He pass'd within the wicket-gate which led Into the village church-yard then he paus'd, And earnestly look'd round; for o'er his head The gloomy cypress wav’d, and at his feet Lay the last bed of many a villager.

But on again he press’d with quicken'd step, “Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." The bat came flapping by; the ancient church Threw its deep shadows o'er the path he trod, And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf; For now he fancied that all shapeless forms Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, And motion as if threatening : while a weight Unearthly press'd the satchel and the slate He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind Play'd with the feather that adorn'd his cap, And seem'd to whisper something horrible. The clouds had gather'd thickly round the moon; But now and then her light shone gloriously Upon the sculptur'd tombs and humble graves, And, in a moment, all was dark again.

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