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'Tis nature's worship-felt-confest Far as the life which warms the breast: The sturdy savage, ʼmidst his clan, The rudest portraiture of man, In trackless woods, and boundless plains, Where everlasting wildness reigns, Owns the still throb—the secret startThe hidden impulse of the heart. Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years The soil of human vice appearsEre passion hath disturb’d thy cheek, And prompted what thou dar’st not speak; Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care, Or from those eyes shoot fierce despairWould I could meet thine untun'd ear, And greet it with a father's prayer. But tle reck'st thou, O my child ! Of travaił on life's thorny wild, Of all the dangers, all the woes, Each loitering footstep which encloseAh! little reck’st thou of the scene So darkly wrought, that speed'st between The little all we here can find And the dark mystic sphere behind ! Little reck'st thou, my earliest born! Of clouds that gather round thy morn, Of arts to lure thy soul astray, Of snares that intersect thy way, Of secret foes, of friends untrue, Of fiends who stab the heart they woo— Little thou reck'st of this sad store ! Would'st thou might never reck them more!

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep-
The tenant of a frail abode,
Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd-
Beguild by follies, every day,
Sorrow must wash thy faults away;
And thou may'st wake, perchance, to prove
The pang of unrequited love.
Unconscious babe! tho' on that brow
No half-fledg'd misery nestles now,
Scarce round those placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there;
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day.
Oh! could a father's prayer repel
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell !
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care-
Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill;
A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.
Sleep on, my child, thy slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief-
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew thy cheek-
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agoniz'd with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care-ah! much too soon.

M

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all thine own;
Of many a pang

and

many a woe
That thy dear sex alone can know-
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not, may not, find a tongue;
But, kept conceald, without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul !
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest-
May joy still animate thy breast !
Stili midst thy least propitious days
Shedding its rich inspiring rays !
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret prayer ;
And, as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.
Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold !
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears !
Sweet promise of ecstatic years !
How fainly would I bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

Byron.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharg'd to express? She weeps not; yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains ; but her silence implies The composure

of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek;

Cold and hunger awake not her care: Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow

bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek

Has the deathly pale hue of despair. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary, the maniac, has been; The trav’ller remembers, who journey'd this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Her cheerful address filld the guests with delight,

As she welcom'd them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. She lov’d; and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hop'd to be happy for life:
But Richard was idle, and worthless; and they
Who knew him, would pity poor Mary, and say

That she was to good for his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight

They listen’d to hear the wind roar. “ 'Tis

pleasant,” cried one,“ seated by the fire-side,

To hear the wind whistle without.” A fine night for the Abbey!” his comrade replied; “Methinks a man's courage would now well be tried,

Who would wander the ruins about.

ور

“ I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

The hoarse ivy shake over my head ;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old "Abbot's white spirit appear;

For this wind might awaken the dead !" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,

“ That Mary would venture there now!" “ Then wager and lose !" with a sneer he replied ; “ I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

And faint if she saw a white cow.” “ Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?”

His companion exclaim'd, with a smile ; “ I shall win; for I know she will venture there now, And earnt a new bonnet, by bringing a bough

From the alder that grows in the aisle.” With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,

And her way to the abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,

She shiver'd with cold as she went. O’er the path, so well known, still proceeded the

maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid; Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast

Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

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