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PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOJl. / if /^ 'i a /IT I U'i ■A iM -^ 151. ^151 %Q VMI -///f /^ i7 U4. 7^ Ff J kX *1 Ci .jX \>XA >.^ 1 '^ '.r;:- TO THE PUBLIC. l'.v-^ •-, •' ■' 'M' These fugitive pieces are offered to the public not because of any special merit, or fancied superiority, and yet the writer humbly presumes they may be read with pleasure, and awake an interest io morality. They are the productions of hours snatched from the duties of a domestic life rendered far from cheering by a sad bereavement. The Author ventures on the hope that they may meet with a favorable reception. Yours respectfully, C. A. Dunn. Woodstock, October, 1867. / / i i :>ugflf aaTO i ion ,; -i: r(j - « ^ \rriiii aitiU' 4J " ,n*'i'' ,y\ ■;.!.:. ^rfJ '■'■I •'•*^ --•.ft ^ir 'i J rr r-5 fK rr oar II-" •* --.fT-fr?:)'^* tt^ ;-»A rrfi''.'^ ■yf):i1 tSuJ- ^>^; .■vrTjn -< r rro 1. .V.-V.1 a -i i^ )0 w ^ fi'T ,f « r* }>, i) u>n «'J; *?.."• r ',.4i fV '//o'/^ .J> i--f vtj*^^;: ,,i;,»? ,'' l:\*! '^('l 'nf> >.'>'(' i{ -A WiLLlE COSIilS r%01 E02IS. . , ^^ > r The sun went down in a flood of light, ^^'"'^^ A glorious sight to see, '^ '^ And the evening bell has tolled the hour, ^ Of six, most sweetly. *• - The laborer and the artisan ^ » • ^nx Unto their homes have gone, But though long I've watched and waited, My Willie comes not home. My baby dear is nestling, ^- Close to my widowed breast. Her soft blue eyes look in my face, '* As she peacefully sinks to rest. "^ There's no father to kiss her fair young cheek. Her dimpled smile to own, Or press her little soft white hand,,,j^, ^ , Now Willie comes not home. n My children's anxious faces. Seem asking for their sire ; They raiai hUn when our table's spread. And by the evening's fire. They are lonely, for their father'! snjile And kindly words are gone ; M# »mmi|j*'eatik in the cold ground laid. Her smile is still as'bright, Her brow seems just as fair, As wben she blessed my sight ni And ^ac d this lower sphere. .i''>r-J r.«- 1 > I dream I hear a sound, The loT'd and gentle voice, Of one who rest halh found, I hear and must rejoice. ' Friends in the silent tomb, Yonr mem'ries linger yet, AroQiid my earthy home^ Dreams chide if I forget. '^Jj ,•.]• n fT THE ISEBRIATL'S WuE. i 'Tis NIGHT, a bitter winter's night, And snow lies on the frozen ground ; A few lone stars cast down their light, The biting blast doth howl around. Upon yon moor, a lonely cot, ii J Doth send no taper's light to cheer. Nor blazing fire make gkd the lot. Of th' inebriate's home, so dark and dr^ir. A faded form is bending o'er, * A The dying embers' flickering flame ; Her eyes are dim, she weeps yet more, j And bitter are her grief and pain. . *,^ Her starving babes are hnsh'd to rest, ^' ^ Her tattered mantle o'er them spread; Their huvigry cries have pierc'd her breast. And gone is all her scanty brend. _ Those babes received it with her tears, They little thought it was her all ; \ She blesses theni with frequent prayers, And Heaven's aid adown doth call. Unhappy wife, thou cacst not sleep. He whom thou lovest should return ; '''> 0m. J> Tia midnight, do not longer keep Thy Bolitaiy watcli, and mourn ! Ye heavy hours seem not bo long ! . Have pity on that shivering form, And ease the racking thoughts that throng, •And stay the pelting of the storm. l/* Tho?e broken panes receive the blast, . ,/ . It sweeping comes, with moaning din, She shivers more, oh, hasten past ! And greet some home where warmth's within. Hark ! to that noise, she starts to hear Her wretched Jiusband's well knov n voice ; He reeling comes, she groans, he swears At her, the object of his choice ! ,.., At her who lov'd him, loves him still, .' f^- . , At her his once fond happy bride ; ^^^ J'*«A His vows to cherish did he fulfil ? . Oh, see her crouching by his side ! .| u.,u v,r StfQck by his blow, etung by'his curse! J^^f^ Si. Poor creature did you wait for this ? . Monster to make her misery worse, '"^"J ■ Vile cruelty's the drunkard's bliss. , 'Clit help her, Heaven ! the inebriate's wife ! Those little ones her sufferings share ; - Oh, case her bitter lot in life, The drunkard'^ fate, those children spare. e ti f\'''',i :'"•■* ,"^1 i'».; \'i'i .:!i v^^< r; J' LITTLE ESIDIi. Once I knew a little maiden Sweeter than the summer's gkle. Fairer than the opening blossotn . Blooming in the dewy dale. Happy as the little Goldfinch, Singing in the cherry tree ; She would ply her busy needle, W Sing and f mile most pleasantly. In the meadow where the Violets Glistered in the soft spring time, Emma wandered in the evening Listening to the bird's sweet chime : Or beside the murmuring brooklet Leaning by a verdant tree, I have marked her merry musings While the stream sang lullaby. From the hill side Emma gathered Flowers to decorate her hoiae ; Where the forest pine trees j.^dded, She would venture forth alsne. Nature's child— sire loved its beauty, Thence would spring dcvolI6n*s ray, it I r\ ]>.-' r; :v;.j3 hi^' t-^'., -'^ i ,:^lii\^ She admired the bright blue heaven, '^^- - And to Nature's God would pray. Little maiden, thou art welcome — t^ Kneeling on the mosey sod — i,) fi^i;^ Thus to gaze on nature's beauty, Thus to worship nature's God, Though thy heart is young and tender, And no eye thy praying see. But the eye of him who called, " Little children come to me." THE CISTAWAT, 02 MATEENAL LOVE. Why are you weeping, old woman, Why are you weeping here ? There's a tempest gath'ring, woman, A tempest dark and drear. :^ Why sit you here, old woman, ' i^^ So lonely on the sea shore ? Where the billows are rolling high And the thunders loudly roar. ** My heart,'' says she, " is more dreary Than the storm or lonely sea ; Depart, disturb not me, oh, stranger, ' My sorrow would secret be,' But tell me thy grief, old woman, For I would ease thy woe ; What causes this ihy sorrow, My heart is touched to know ? ^'% (t Mark yog not yon vessel sailing Upon the troubled sea ? My son. my son is on its deck, And he is dear to me. He has left me thus to weep for him, My hoary locks to tear ; He loves me not, tho' cherished long, My sad, ray joyous care. The slave of vice, alas, he is, ! f-^JNA To sin his couree is run ; A castaway, yet his mother Can't forget her son. • • ihj *^... 7 'iH^'K ;%Al|'^ ' BIIRA TBE FAIB. ■ni'.''i" tr* Be not so proud 'cause nature gave Myra, to thee a liandsome face ; £ook not so high, 'cause in thy form Is centred every queenly grace. Knowest thou not that beauty fades, That all that's fair and now so sweet. Will blasted be by the hiding tomb, Or withered by time so .---■.._--• This woodVoos world, the things that it adorn, So beantifal the hand of God did form ; His care for every life He did create, His love for man, though in a fallen state. Proclaim that God is love. " —♦'*•"♦' -- ,.« I'.t i m >,l ^ BOPE^S WELCOME. Ah hope, sweet flattering hope She has been here again "With cheerful smiles so sweet. That doubt dare not remain ; She whisperc^d future joya, Once more beguiled my heart, Her tales like truth did seem. ^ The pleasing dream has flown, «And hope's withdrawn her smile, She veils her heavenly face ; My heart has grieved the while, f :T 13 When cares the breast woirid grieve , And tempt me to despair, , , , Sweet hope once more will smile, Nor ever fails to cheer, , ^, hVV I will not chide thee, hope, Though flattering me again, And false are the bright dreams •> That deck'd your smiling reign. Then smile, dear flattering hope, Despite thy sweet deceit, - '' Show me Iby face nor stay away, "' My welcome shall thee greet. 4> i 'aJfi*.. ^ THE INDIAN FATHER. PonATTAN, the father of Pocahontas, refused to give his younger daughter in marriage to Governor Dale, though solicited by him and her sister j saying to the messenger : " Go back to your Governor, and tell him that I value his love and peace, which, while I live, I' will keep. Tell him that I love my daughter as my life, and though I have many chil- flrrn. T havo nono like her. If 1 could not see her, I would not live : and if I give her to you, I shall never see her." — Sears Descnpiion of the United States. . White man, adieu ! haste on your way, And tell your Governor bold. All honor to bis love I pay, And would his friendship hold. '' i p I Ji I i 1 4 y, L But her, iriy younger daughter fair, The darliog of my heart, Who oft my warrior breast does cheer, With her I cannot part. Though she is not my only child, * I have moro my love to claim ; Not ODA ha3 e'er so sweetly smiled, Or called their father's name. She's graceful as the springing fawn ; She's beautious as the flower ... That lifts its head at dewy morn, -, ;• « To deck some forest bower. , . I could not live in forest wild, I coulij not chase the deer, If parted from my favorite child III would my grey hairs fare. / Kid :-; My dearest child could I not see,- Dim would be each sunny day ; Pi Weak grow my heart ; grief speedily :, n t,t . ;j Would wear my life away. My Indian maid did I bestow, '"" ^^ "'^I'^u^ih To be the whiteman's bride, Far from her kindred she must go, And cross the ocean wide. ' : ♦ -.4. :1 .1 aVuir '. I .:'-i\- <«'li Then I should see her face no mdre ; ^ ^' Tell my white brother so, rm growing oldj and near Death's shor&i Close uot my life with woe. 15 '.A i.y:n^A 1 1 THE GBASST IliLL— THE DREA9IS OF TOVTH. Can I forget tlie grassy hill, ; . Around my bumble mossy dwelling, Can I forget the simple rill, Its many tales of fancy telling ? ,, ^ Can I forget the days gone by, When I upon thaVhill was straying, , ,j ^ ^ Or warmed by summer's genial sky^ "y Amid the violets blue was playing ? Can I forgat the meadovy green, i When the evening bell was sweetly pealing,. , That bright and lovely forest scene 4, y God's wond'rons works revealing ? , Oftn I forget when on that hill, My childish hand the flowers was strewiDg^ * When I my shining can did fill, I With strewberries that were growing ? CJan I forget the shady wood, V When at dewy eve the sun was setting, The green old yard, where mooly stood While I her milk was getting ? Ah no I for then my heart was young, Full of romantic feeling. To all life's beauties fondly clung. To infancy revealing. 1 W fl ^; Id .' ^; III BE KIND TO THE AGED WATFAREB. ti Oh treat that stranger well, he is an ag'd man. And he hath borne the burden of the day, * ' Mark that his eyes arc dim, his cheeks are wan, And that his scanty locks have long been grey ; Give him the cushion'd chair that he may easier rest His tired limbs, that ache with many a pain, Give him -some food and cheer his aged breast, Until his drooping frame its strength regain. Behold he grateful smiles for all thy care, The thanks that swell his heart he cannot speak, But in his brighten'd eye there peeps a tear, * ' Thee it blesses, rolling down his wither'd cheek ; The sun is low, the old wayfarer's gone, With cheerful heart he treads his homeward way j Thy kindness on life's darkness brightly shone, Thou eas'd for him the burden of the day. X L> j-i. it May he, poor man, ne'er v»ant a friendly hand, Tor tender heart to do a virtuous deed, While he remains a dweller in the land May pity ever find him iq his need ; ^_ And thou my lovely maid that did'st bestow, . Thy care upon a feeble aged man, May God be thy reward, who looks below, And all the ways of erring mortals scans. IT ii;t .') . f" '\^.':rV '* it'. Ml FlIBES'S G&AT HAIRS. : 'yh t:^ r. Dear father I've gaized on thy broad ample brow, Admiring the beaotj that sat triamphant there, Ere Borrow had farrowed thy forehead as now, Or rongh time had whitened thy dark curling hair ; Though dear then the smile thy face to me wore, I honor thy gray hairs ani wrinkles much more. And bright was the beam from thy dark rolling eye, When youth's golden blossoms^ I welcomed as- mine, But time o'er thy bean^ swept roughly by, And ruthless had dimmed those bright eyes of thine, Yet dearer to me are thine eye, faded beam, And honored the head where thy gray hairs gleam. Thy youth seems a dream, and thy manhood prime, Now thy once stately figure is bowed by rough time ; Old age overtakes thee with sickness and care, And sorrow increasetfa as year succeeds year ; But though faded thy beauty, and drooping thy form. Dear to me is the old head thy gray hairs adorn^ I f. .1 t: ]»■ ■p ;^, ;H, ( I r.\ 18 Thus far you have braved thecohl storms of life, Now may peace fill your aged bosom with rest ; As a conquering hero from this rough world's strife, Be pleasant thy path to the home of the blest ; And till death^s dreamless slumber shall banish all cares, ,;. I would honor and cherish my father's gray hairs. :Si»1J''Ui,< ..<.,ir .y •».' f itJut , EEGRET. would that we had never raef, ^^, ;j^^ In days now long ago. Or that we were as strangers yet, That met an parted so. The paiu around my aching heart Would ne'er been caused by thee. From kindred love, from hope to part, •Might have been spared to me. 1.1'. ■ ft a^: 'f> »>*. '^ ^..r. : 1^ i •- 5 PU jQ^would that we had never met That morning long ago, That lingers in my memory yet, With sky o'ercastby love, A trustful woman, young and fair, i* . -^ I stood then by your side, With Jhope and love the words did hear ii > That made me then your bride. A lover bold^ you sought my hand With many a promise fair, Such honest love could I withstand, 19 So true I thoaght jon were ; false is man, to strive to win ' ' A woman for his own- Secured the prize his love grows dim, And she must pine alone. Deep, very deep is woman's wrong io"^ Whose trust is thus betrayed, Such anguish cannot find a tongue To tell the griet thaVs made, The heart grows cold, yet she must live The same from day to day, Earth hath no hope to that said heart, It beats and wears away. '^ ■nA .1 ^'iiM.U >il » ?-,? HT9IN OF PRAISE TO GOD. Almighty God, thy tender care I witness every day, An Qge devoted to thy praise Could not thy love repay. Amazing yon should notice me, Great God of heaven and earth, To comfort me, to be my guide, Who am so little worth. To give me food from day to day, To be my constant friend. To grant me clothing, peace, and health, Of^ moTXTT hl'SRfiin^ send. Id m L ' JimftHeM!- 20 |r ! To grant thine aid since life began, "' ' To shelter, pity me, - ;- ■ •^- let me all thy gracious acts «" ur. r . With deep devation see. f> lu;? i'^vr .^, My gratitude and thanks are weak^ ;■ •!• IT M 4J THE CHILD O'ER HIS DEAD UOTHEK* My mother I O my mother I wake, And tell me what you ail — I want to see a glad smile break O'er your features sweet and pale. Do raise your eyes, their look was dear When fondly viewing me ; I want the kiss on my cheefc here I always had from thee* My mother I Orny mother I speak. Your lips are very white j No red is in your cold, cold cheek, i I I caDDot bear the sight Thy tender voice O let me hear. Thy words so kind and mild — I'm weepiog many a bitter tear, Look on yonr sorrowing child. ..•4:. ^t^T 3{ l- ^fv' --M My mother I O my mother ! look^^ > The sun shines in the sky — Fresh flowrets from the garden brook. Upon your bosom lie. I've kissed thee for the hmidredth time,, 1 have pressed thine icy hand ; Nor yet hath said that prayer of mine. You bade me understand. Thy dear, dear mother, little child^ Will not wake here— she's dead, And her pare spirit, meek and mild. Unto its God has fled. She loves yon still, and from on high Behold's her little boy ; She blesses yon, then do not cry — *^^^ Her God can give you joy. rU My mother, mother, I will come ^'- To Heaven, if thou art there — -'^ ^ Where thou dost dwell shall be my homer Thy smiles will make it fair. "^^ I'll ask your God if I may go, '^ Dear mother ask him too ; ""^ ^■ Sweet Heaven must be bright 1 kD0W'^ That shelter's such as you. 23 THE WHIP-FO-WILL. .;|i if Cease not thy song lone Whrp-po-^ill, Thy mtisic lend tlie night, For other Thirds their rkher Strains Will grant with morning's light ; But now, when silence breathes around On this bright summer eve, Thy notes from the dark wild wood com'e, * And sweet innpressions leave. Sweet homely bird like friendship true. When night with hiding shade, ^ ,,^.^y Bias wra^ daj's brightness all in gloom, ,. j,j' ^^^ Thy welcome notes are paid. Friends oft are found when we havejoy,^ "^ "' '-' But not to share our sorrow r"^*'^ o^mj nri; v w Then friendship's voice should soothe our woe» We may not need to-morrow. , id a'i Til£ OLD BriBlfib HiLL. «'-iv-T An old ruined mill in a wild forest is a melancho- ly sight. There are many such in Canada. There* pewits build their nests, lizards crawl and wild grasses and flowers wildly bloom. Burrounded by hills where the hemlock and pine, '" ' Luxuriantly evergreen grow, A fabric is seen long sinking with age, Once the strongest of buildings I trow ; Kow des'late to view 'tis an old ruined mill, . .Ajid the sound of its large wheel forever is still. i>.i 24 I I !i h III Its timbers are mossy, grown dark with decay, Wild grain in its crevices wave, And lovely wildflowers there hold up there head, . As if watching the mill and its grave ,, v And the Pewitl has hnng her nest to a beam, r T' enliven this wreck of old time it would seem. * Oh where is its pond, bright sparkh'ng of yore, .' And its minatnre cataract that fell ^ O'er these green mossy logs it boundeth no more, No more do we hear its white rushing swell ; Gone, save the path where the bright waters flowed, Wild grass and flowers in its place are t)e8towed . A bridge partly broken affords a rude way, O'er the deep woody chasm that yawns from below, And when the old mill, in its prime worked away. The timber wain used o er this old bridge to go ; It, too, has departed, and the old rained mill. Is brooding in silence, 'oeath the hemlock clad hill. There's a story about this old ruined mill, That it witnessed a murderous deed ; Here lover's rude band did the precidus blood spill, Caus'd the warm beating heart of his Csth'rine to bleed ; And now it is whispered if at night you there go, Your ears will be startled with groanings and wo. 3i4'2^ f';i t^ttm^^'. **"••*-#**■» 25 THE WINTER SUNSHINE. Welcome sunshine, welcome glit'ring thing, More than the light that diamonds bring, I hail thee an this frosty morn, Whilst snow and ice the earth adorn ; Cheering nature, and glad'ning ail Where'er thy gen'rous smile doth fall. Thou givest warmth to the rudest cot, ,- And peepest in each dismal spot ; Smiling on the humble poor as free, As on the rich of high degree ; Constant sunshine pure bright and free, The rich and poor are alike to thee. Not so the wealth of sordid gold. Its niggard gifts the rich do hold ; Not so the diamonds of the mine. Their beauties beam for ladies fine ; ' ^ But thou fair sunshine brighter are Than golden ore or diamond's star. ' j^i'V To thee I'll give my warmest praise, Blest be thy light, thy gen'rous rays ; Welcome ever, jyelcome in my room To drive from thence the winter's gloom ; Cheer then ever my home retreat, A grateful heart thy smile will greet ; Shine pure sunshine, shine pure on all, From lordly seat to cottage wall. The little boys they welcome thee Whilst piling snow with youthful glee, ?i •'■'■J 26 ,1! •' tl ' ' ' * ■ Hi ;|i Those little birds all twittering sweet ; Tbv radiant presence gladly greet ; Tlie ponltiT near the granary door With cheerful noise thy warmth adore. Unsheltred cattle from the night Are thanking thee for generous* light : YoE beggar with his thin clad breast, •J by rays upon his heart do rest ; From mourner deep to laughing boy, From high to low thou givestjoy ; eauteous its fair form appears to your eye, \Vhere no rival beside it does shine, Too soon its meek beauty neglected may lie. For prouder exotics more fine. Rend not then the flower from this lonely shade, AVhere its beauties are raised to the view ; Torn from its quiet nook too soon it will fade, For, alas ! the world withers simplicity's hue. Tht f^i it here rest, where thie. calm summer breeze 27 So gently will fan its meek head ; Where the song of the robin is heard from the trees, And the balm of soft peace will be shed. Let it bloom 'neath this shade — 'neath the shade let it die, Where its sweets have been scattered around, Enliv'ning the waste and each wanderer's eye, V Who, by chance, the lone spot may have foand. When its season is past and its young life hath tied, May the sweet-scented grass form its bed, , j.. Where in life it was lovely lay down its sweet head, Best a poor artless flower, in the shade. EECOGNlTIOxN. u d'i !•: ♦> X:- f. -4- He raised his head and beheld his child. He thought it was her, but he knew when she smiled The soft blue eyes and her sunny hair, Her rosy mouth with the dimples there, Her youthful cheeks where health did glow, And the smoothness of her classic brow. What pleasanter sight could a father behold. His heart bounded with joy as he wished to un-. * fold This care, this treasure of fifteen years. Of a father's hopes and a father's fears. With a fairy step the girl drew near, 'Twas, indeed, her father, and she dropped a tear. !, ■ h m I II ,.-i.i 28 Her heart was warm, and a year had flown Since ehe saw that face she loved to own. -/ My father, she uttered with her own sweet voice, My father, and that father did rejoice When he pressed his child to his reverend breast, While he kissed her cheek and the dear one blest, While he looked in her eyes, and their mellow light . , ,., Reminding of years that had taken flight. Her mother once more in her semblance did see. As she looked so he thought when she wedded me, As she looked before heaven had called her there. Which had bathed his cheek with many a tear. Though he knew God just, and he thanked him now For his child, as he once more pressed her brow. ,»' THE TOVNG CARTER. f.^:f4 The night was chill, and drizzling rain Was falling fast around. And not a star in the bleak sky mh My watchful eye had found. rrnH *•?^ My mantle o*er ray breast I drew. For biting was the blast. And to my not far distant home My steps were hurrying fast. I had reached the valley of Springfield, *? f* l^4f 111 '1 i- f Where pines in clusters grow, And many an hill of natare rose In dark and rugged hue. No sound was floating in tke air, No being met my sight. But here and there a cottage lent The gloom a cheerful light. The brook is reached that idly brawls. From morning untU eye, It tempts my feet to linger here, Its gossip to believe. But, hark ! a cry and sorrow too Is in that dismal wail, From whence does come the mournful sounds 'Tis from this lonely Vale. V Yes, close above the spot I Etand^ This frowning hill below Presents to me a scene in life, A view of human woe. A youth sits on the cold wet ground, ills hardy ciieeks are brown, And from his cheeks where sorrow reigns The tears are streaming down. 'Tis strange, but true, beside him lay A poney wounded sore. Its head lay near n>s throbbing breast, The youth was stroking o'er. -■*3i ^ 30 ;!:; \'V li A cart and harness near the scene, The ponej's labors tell, He'll never draw that cart again, He has often drew so well. Poor beast, he'd fallen from the road That wound around this hill, His anguish broke the dismal night, Before so very still. And there he lay in apguish deep. In pain that would him kill. ♦^ i-t 1' m')'' '3 Companions were that boy and horse Through many a weary day, Together they had braved the storm In poverty's hard way. The youth's old father, too, relied Upon them for support, The boy felt this, he stroked again, The poney's deadly hurt. No human aid was nigh to help, He raised his head on high, Poor boy, to scan the secret gloom, But sees no succour nigh. It was then I heard the mournful cry, God heard the sorrow too, . And comfort sent to that kind youth. To prayer ever true. . ).; I ji . ■ •< If > :■ A • ■ ■ ' h m 31 .s." THE WItiCED OXE. Ob, yes I she felt the wrong, and deeply, too, I saw it in her eyes of flashiog bine, Her raffled brow, first pale^ then crimson'd cheek ; The grief that swelled her heart no tongne coald speak, The smiling lips that qniTei^d, strock with woe, The snowy breast that hea^'d when not a tear wonid flow. • 1 A change came o'er her, then a noble scorn Sat on her brow .where high sonl'd thoughts adorn, Her flashing eyes shot glances of disdain, A haughty spirit straggled free to reign ; Proud anger glow'd upon her downy cheek, Where beauty dwelt too pore for Tice to meet. .u fA Another change, sweet girW could have thought Thou wast an angel pure this world had sought, And while I gazed, sweet wrong'd one, I became A villain, in my sight remoiaefnl pain Seized on my heart, it wi^ied its falsehood o'er, And felt the innocence, 111 never injure more. She raised her head to heaven, light divine Broke o'er her features, charity did shine In her pure eyes illumed with Uiss the while, Her lovely face betrayed a forgmng smile, She meekly bowed her head Eobmissive to her God, And welcomed with a smile the chastening rod. Her lips were moving now ia secret prayer, i-:s Ij 32 ■^ Such fervent aspirations Heaven will hear, And then she bent on me her dove like eyes, She clasped her hands, while slowly did arise A prayer for me, peace filled her pioas breast, No malice now could harm her — she was blest. BREATHE NOT HER NAHE. l^h breathe not her Dame, she has forsaken the path • That was pointed with care as her way, She's forgotten the virtue that brightened her youth, And wildly the wanderer's astray. Ah ! can I forget, when she sat by my side, Learning lessons of wisdom and truth, When she valued true goodness, and virtuous aot» call'd Prom her heart the warm praises of youth. She was lovely in feature, and graceful in form^ With a voice that was silvery clear ; could I restore her once more to my heart, As once, when both virtuous and fair. Ah) no ! Bhe's so altered, no tears can restore The frail wanderer again to my breast; My trust it is broken, my hope is destroyed, And as strangers we meet and we part. 1 am left but to weep o'er those past happy years That promised affection more strong. Now the union is broken, and cheerlessly I Am deeply feeling the wrong. breathe not the name I once lov*d so well, There is sorrow to me in the sound ; But let me forget it, that sadness may flee. Nor with memory so cruelly wound. LOWLT GEMS. Borrow ! sorrow ! various are thy ways ^ To wound the human heart ; * And this is one, where we have loved and trusted There to find unworthiness. HOPE. ,,. --; J.:.,--' n. Lay thy throbbing temples down, Try to banish sorrow; Morning folio weth the night, Joy may beam to-morrow. MT GOOD OLD FATBEB. No Harry, no, I cannot leave My good old father — It would cause his aged eyes to grieve, And sorrow to his heart would cleave, If I should go and thus deceive My good old father. He stroked my head in infancy, My good old father ; 9 u ^ Co 34 is % •^ And praised my eyes and called them blue. He pat my cheeks, and kisssed them too^ And sang me many a song he knew, My good old father. I knew no mother, but I had - * My good old father ; . , • He taught me how to lisp and play, And smiled whenever I was gay, And his hand led me on the way. My good old father. He's been my kind protector long, - My good old father ; He taught me oft' the sacred page. The lore of many a learned sage, And of the past and present age, My good old father. And now his once dark locks are gray, , My good old father ; And his once brilliant eyes are dim — If I should leave who will read to him ; Believe his wants despite each whim, My good old father. I love you, but 1 cannot leave My good old father ; Adieu ! deav Harry, may you know Ail joy this life can ere bestow, While gratitude I stay to show My good old father. iK 35 THK INFANT'S SMILE. A mother was weeping, Her baby was sleeping « '' On a neat little coach by her side, She was heavily sighifig, ; To banish grief trying, . When the infant awoke and it smiled. Gone now her sorrow, Her face a smile did borrow, ], As she pressed the soft cheek of her child,. She caressed him with gladness, Joy mastered all sadness, Again the sweet infant did smile. For herself hope was fading, But her boy so engaging Claimed a mother's fond hope for her childy And her prayer besought Heaven's Kindest blessings to be given To the sweet little one that so smiled. i'^ IP - '• KJl. If ■r, . t ftESIGNATION. Why should I e'er be seen to weep,. Or ever heard to sigh, While God perpetual vigils keep Id miftcsions Heavenly. Though sorrow seize with all its pain Despair its darkness lay, tfj '•*:.■ y I '-=<»*l i S6 For hope to cheer thy breast agaio, Remember yon must pray. '» - \- - Is God to hear thy grief to high, ^ Or is He then less kind, Than formerly when His soft relief Thy sufferings did find. >God hears the lowest feeble cry > Your aching heart may raise. With every jrroan asofiidel'i hiajK His oar attention r»avr'. A. » If grief with leaden weight has fell Too heavy on thy breast, - - ?, And earth no longer looketh well, Tet adversity is the best. Yonr faith is tried — yon ferl, indeed, You are not for earth alone, In Tfief its vanitv vou read "* But Heaven's vour final home. ' V ;i i In nature's wonderous pages see Your Heavenly Father's care. His bounteous hand is opened free. All living creatures share. Bach tree — each flower within this laniJ His gracious love has set, Let i^kth then as a firm rock stand, Thou he never can forget. 37 THE RiNG£& OF KEiCHWOOD. The fairest of ladies rode out one day ""' On a beautiful coal black steed, Its housings was rich and her habit was gay, And the gems on her hat had many a ray, And she canter'd with gentle speed. ■¥i7 :?d'f U sShe entered a forest of noble trees, Deck'd with leaves of a shining greeu That gracefully played with the summer breeze, And sheltered the antlered deer she sees, | A springing with graceful mien. , '\, A bough kissed her locks, the breeze seemed to woo The roses that dwelt on her cheek, .: .u ..-t And the sparkling sun in his home of blue • ■ * A Warmed her snowy brow with his smile so true, And the lady's air was sweet. The birds loudly sang in their leafy bowers With music that soothed the ear, ■ '*-> And her pleased eye sought for various flowers, Growing by her path wet with dewy showers, Geming the green grass near. ,..V. i:A\l the lady, she cantered the forest along, Her bosom was happy and gay. And innocent thoughts in her breast did thror> ^ Wh^ the horse became startled at so j among The bnshes too near the pathway. thing m ■'. ■* ; I , J, r" i u ^■j m Away sprang the horse, it snorted and rear'd ' ■'^^'^W.'Sftufi.- !* 38 Till the lady's coarage did fail, When a raoger bold through the green leaves peer'd, He marked Ler danger, his steps soon neared To help the ladj so pale. The mad palFry's speed was quickly stayed By the forester's stalwart arm, The swooning fair one in safety was laid, He knelt by her side, kind attentions paid . Till the lady^s cheek grew warm. He parted the locks from her temples so white For the summer's wind U ^ ', He gazed on the lady's beauty i ght Till his manly heart was warmed by the sight, And chaste was the love that ruled. The lady soon opened her eyes to the day, And blushes then mantled her cheek, ' ^ For: she saw on the breast of a stranger she lay, Yet she kindly thanked the bold forester gay In grateful tones most sweet. - ^ . . ■ iu. The lady once more on her palfry was placed, But the former guided her rein, And the lady's eyes as the stranger they traced, Saw his noble form no knight would disgrace, iSo handsome his features and mien. •-■i rA. He talked and she smiled till her castle drew near, When the forester took his leave In her chamber wrought with princely care, Oft the lady wept and welcomed a tear. And many the hocr she grieved. 39 Why did her cheeks loose their rosy hue, And what dimm'd the lady's eye ? She loved with a love most warm and trne, The forest scene oft her thought review, With the Ranger of Beach wood nigh. Three years had sank in the galf of time, Bat the lady no longer wept, For the heiress she sat of a lordly line, An orphan lone, yet she did not pine, Her sorrow with time had slept. There is music and joy in her castle hall, Where is the Ranger of Beachwood now, He presses the lady's white hand so small, The heiress is hia, he is lord of all. There is joy on her jewelled brow. ;!,-r^ m m CANADA FAREWELL. ^y Farewell Canada, I am starting From thy shores I love so well, And my grief at thus departing These few silent tears must tell, 1 am leaving quite a stranger To the land I am going to, The ocean cross — brave every danger That my journey may bestow. I could dwell dear land forever Neath the shadow of thy pines, And no better land us sever 40 Nor a wish for fairer climes, My kind sister she is weeping - ■ r. And mj father's face U pale, Thanks, ilear friecds, for thy kind greeting May your hopes and pruyers prevail. Farewell, Canada, I have wandered Through iby fields since infancy, , : . In thy forest paths meandered Pulling moss 30 rich to me, ^ * .. And thy various flowers have gather'd From the brook or smiling mead. While the vocal warblers feathered Chanted praises sweet indeed. Beloved ones that my heart is leaving I this scent will ne'er forget, Farewell, all, and cca8e.thy grieving, Furthering but my regret, Adieu ! dear land, a wish I'm breathing For thy safety and welfare, May you prosper — plenty cleaving To thy shores willl be my prayer, .,,. - .^. ■» ^ THE SOLITARY FLOW£R. Why dost thou bloom so sweetly lone flower ? Amidst the grassy waste thy beauty bound-;, Bifiing like some magniflcent old tower Among decaying gloom that it surrounds. Sweet solitary, sfey, why art thou here ? Where do admiring eye thy beauties see, 41 To live in such a gloomy forest drear, Obecnrely — live, die, and forgotten be. Come, I will bear thee from this hiding place^ Thou lovely, lone, perfuming flower, Thy painted velvet leaves and slender grace . -. Are meet to grace some lady's genial bower, > There thou wilt bloom in splendor bright, "And lovely belles will pause to gaze On thy fair form of tinted white, Bestow, for thy perfume deserved praise. ; : There thou wilt meet with proud exotics rare Scenting the air with their rich perfume. Still thou modest tinted flower fair, ThoiT wilt eclipse their boosted bloom. How canst thou lovo this bare and stilly spot, Beneath this enveloping curtain hide, Thy native air and home will be forgot ; Amid new scenes of pleasure to abide. Why did I tear thee from thy n stive soil. Already thy fragile form biggins to stoop, To rob solitude of thy charms so toil, In thy new home a stranger see the droop. Sol is destroying its delicate faint head. Deprived of the nutriment where once it grew, This languishing injured flower is dead, Its faded curling leaves the ground bestrew. > I VJ 42 i m VILLAGE UODIE. My village home, ray village home, ' And art thou still the same As when I frolic'd o'er thy greea Or laaghed upon thy plain ; ; <^ > Thy grassy lanes, and are they there «^ And the ancient trees of yore, *^ To screen my head from sunny rays r-'-- >. ' My straying feet did lure. My childhood's home, my childhood's home, And can there still be found The mossy cowship crowned bank, - And the stream with speaking sound, Its shining pebbles I have viewd. My joyous feet have laved Or stood with pride to view the form Thy glittering waters gave. My girlhood's home, my girlhood's home, O, no, I have not forgot The pleasant, lonely, silent wood. And the ruined sylvan spot ; Of the peeping abbey's decayed walls, The weed-covered fragment seat, The ivy'd gray and time worn stone With olden time replete. My youthful home, my youthful home, My sweet cottage retreat. The winding pathway to thy door 48 My feet no more may greet. At eventide the lowing cows Woald warn me to the throng Of lightsome, merry, village maids With pail and milking song. My native home, my native home. The village inn and charch; The sweetly scented road that took Me to thy sacred porch, The antique mansion on the hill, The abode of ancient state, The elm tree edged plat before Thy old fashioned figured gate. THE AFGHAN GIBL. ' t war is still raging in India's far land, And deep is the crimson that's dying its strand, Fierce burns the flame that's consuming its life. With plunder and carnage its fair scenes are rife. turn but your ear to the Afghan shore And list the loud booming of the cannons roar, Now, hark I to the clashing of sabre and spear, With the falling of edifices ages did rear. Mark the bloody field strewed with the wreck of the dead. Oft forming a pillow for tho dying head, And pity's meek eye would be tearful to own The despair and the anguish of each passing groan Vf 44 See yon high crested chieftain whose valorons arm Did often trie enemy's power disaira, His prostrate abasemeni, his bright shiver'd sword, How truly they tell of our gracious Lord's word. Plainly does agony esult on his brow, How lived the lips, and onco bright cheeks aro now, And the light of his once flushing eyes are so pale, The last sigh he has uttered for ambition a tale. Hero the high born and lowly in one ruin are laid, Before death's ghastly visage this world '^ glory must fade, Though fames glory to youth is a bright shining gem, ■ ' ■ • ^ The garland is withered when hung on death's stem. O look to that sput where destruction's hursh hand Is inciting to murder yon savage white band, All the fury of var marks their merciless tidfe, Their own Makers image in their brethren to hide. Exposed in the battle all danger to face si See that desperate old man of the Afghan race, v How costly the Jewells his turban doth bear, His valour and diamonds great interest share. Punishment he is dealing to each mercenary slave, ^ That for plunder would slay the best and the brave, But at length overpowered — an insiduous blow ■ Stretches the venerable chieftain low. The pitiless weapon is lifted once more To be sheathed in his bosom making death sure, 45 But his cruel aod father, and her eye Is rich with beauty, black is, too, Ofaangeful ta the saromer's sky. Her face it is divinely fair, A model is her form, Her name is on this semblance dear, From my fond breast withdrawn. There are pilgrims at our Holy Shrine,. We may enquire of them, A lady fair, and perhaps she's thine, Bested since the hour of ten. Good father, thank thee, I will go And rest my weary feet. That lady fair I fain would know, • For news thy pilgrims greet. TLey walked then for a little while Among the shady trees, The friar s features wore a smile The lady fair he sees. Stranger, behold the lady fair, The friar loud he cries, There, wave this signal in the air S'fei fj 48 . Before she mouuts and flies. The lady stood by the convent wall, Her palfry near her led, The porter old some words did bawl, The lady turned her head. Onwards the friar and Stranger came, Her cheek grew very pale, She knew her lover, seized her rein. • And soon was lost again. "' '^^ *Ti3 her I 'tis her! the stranger cried, The beauty of Longbnrn, . It is her that was to be my bride. Ah I cruel maid return. Her glance met iniiio, sle knew me well, And yet from uie did fly, Can she be false, my heart does swell, I'll follow, find, or die. Patience, young man, the friar said, , .: j:. Do thou still here remain. And I will seek thy cruel maid, hi -t To love thee once again; Falsehood, deceit, she lays to thee, * ^^ Id anger was her flight, "'' ' My mnle is swift, she will list to me, * ^ ^ Expect me ere 'tis nigut. The friar sooo was lost to view. Beneath the shady wood, 49 He soon the lady's palfry knew, Beside the river's flood. He saw she often turned her head And fondly gaze behind, It told him where her thoughts still led, That love still ruled her mind. His mule went trotting on a pace. The lady's horse went slow, When by her side her lovely face The signs of tears did show. He told her that her love was true. That sorrow ou him lay, Her smiles and tears wore not a few At what the friar did say. The lady with the friar good Joyful retraced her way, She met her lover by the wood, Upon his bosom lay. The Holy Father made them one Within his convent gray. He blessed them by the setting sun, They gold aijd thanks did pay. 1 50 LASS OF SHAWDON BRAE. ¥m*- Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae Where haet thou wandered to this day ? I have been by the river's side Watching the sportive finny tribe, I paused beside the streamlet's run Viewing the trout in the noontide sun. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae ^ What prolonged thy further stay ? The robin seated in the hawthorne tree Sweetly pouring its melody, The lark and the blackbird s touching etraiD, Listening their music I did remain. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae For what beside didst thou delay ? To pull the flowers at my feet The primrose and the violet sweet. The valley's lilly with snowy hue And'the dewy cup of the h.ire bell blue. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae How much further didst thou stray 1 By the clacking mill near the village pooT, And I rested beneath dome willows coul Marking the laborous busy bee Greet many a flower for the rich honey. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae Whe re did you wend your farther way ? To the ruined castle on the hill, 61 Its fissures the moss and ivy fill, I passed in review by its time worn stone Drearaiog of ages tiiat are gone. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae Thy descriptive tale resume, I pray — I, musing, beheld the church yard scene Where many a grave with grass is green. And Heavenly thoughts their influence shed As I viewed the last remains of the lowly dead. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae Your walk was pleasant on this fine day — I found rare shells on the pebbly beach, I viewed sea waves beyond their reach, I sat on a rock, the dark sea above. And a vessel I watched on the waters move. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brao What more befell, tell me, T pray ? I strayed o'er the heath, ti nrple fern^. A drink I had from a cottage churn The cattle remarked in the old abbey's shade, And peaceful sheep on the hill side laid. Lovely lass of Shawdon Brae- In your wanderings great interest lay — My ramblts I thought should now be o*er. And homeward I crossed the barren moor, Here, kind Harry, you waited me to receive And in natures delight's you fully believe. m 52 JBE VALE FLOWEI^t I'i In yonder vale i.l'eir lives a maid We call her lovely Sally, And oft to see her wild u^^ers cull By the nearest stile I dal]>'.- Of village maids she is the flowei', None can compare with Snllj', Th<' village »wai as are all in iove \v"ith the maiden of the vaUov. Her sparkling eyes are like the sloe, Her locks like the raven's wing, Unto her neck of snowy hue The silken rioglets cliag. Her rnby lips, her pearly teeth, The blashing cheeks of Sally, With sonny smile and fairy form She IS the beanty of the valley. When the village green tempts her to dance So gracefal and so airy, Dressed in her best, with flowers gemmed She is like a siWian fairy. The lord of yonder proud state house May wish to lore sweet Sally, And wish in vain — her heart is pure, Thoogh nartnred in a valley. Her cot by trees of ancient dat e Is sheltered in the valley, The woodbine near its windows climb 3 From the Bcen ted door with Sally. To market ere the sun is up, With dairy basket Sally, Thoug i)Oorly clad yet Bmiling face As she sings along the valley. would this maid but smile on me. But bloom within my bower,* My riches would a shelter gain To protect my lovely flower. Farewell, the ship my fortune made, A greater priz e is Sally, In peace and love we then would live With splendor in the valley. Alas ! her charms arc not for me, A youth in the same valley Receives her gladsome guiless smiles And owns the heart of Sally ; And I must bear tbigr rural scene, No more by yon stile dally. My heart seems breaking for the love Of the maiden of the valley. if THE HERSIIT OF THE DELL— i BALUD. A storm was in the evening sky Threatening heavy rain, A strong high wind rustled the leaves Tinted with summer's wane. 4jvl S? 54 Darker became the forest's shade, Hoarsely a cataract fell, To this thick wood its angry sound Came from an anseen dell. A martial youth of noble form Bode on a gallant steed, Long bewildered in the forest maze OhaDges now his fiery speed. The trappings of the horse were rich, The youth's helmit shono with gold, Id knighhood's gayest dress arrayed Once beaatioDS to behold* The scarff that from his shoulder hung He now drew across his breast, The trees had the azure satin rent With the feathers in his crest. The yoathfal knight he hung his head With helmet off his brow, With care, beheld, all nature changed Heard the thunder rattle now. No habitation blest his sight, No shelter met his eye, The lighmiog flashed, and now the rain Fell in torrents from the sky. His jaded steed he gave the rein Quite hopeless with despair. For he had wandered since last eve, Ahis ! be knew not where. 55 Hunger upon his vitals pressed He could not satisfy, Water, not a tr )p to wet his lips And tbey were burning dry. At length an opening blest his sight, His steed was trusted well, He steadily finds a forest path Ending in a peaceful dell. The knowing steed quickens his pace, On the young knight's ear there fell At intervals amidst the storm The sound of a vesper bell. It ceased, a pious voice arose In prayer, and sang a hymn, The gallant youth now shelter spied Through the evening shades so dim. The mossy cell of an anchorite Near which bubbling water fell, The cross and bell both plainly say A hermit here does dwell. Sweet flowers kissed the limpid fount That bubbled from the rock, And higher up the shady dell . Was seen the torrents shock. The youth dismounted from his steed To enter the mossy cell, Carved immages and pictures graced This shelter of the dell. ^ 60 N ^4 i The kneeling hermit heard a step, His nged form nroso, He leaned him on liis faith fnl staff, His silver hair free flows. His gray beard to his girule reached,. Sandals decked his bare feet, Rosary and cross with flowii g robe= The hermits dre«s complete. Nobleness in his mild face shone, Benevolence there was set, Pious dignity shone in his gaze When the kneeling youth ho met The knight he, reverend^father cried^ Yonr mercy here I crave, Protect me from this cruel storm. From thirst and hunger save. Welcome, my son, the hermit said,. To what this cave can give, Earth's simple fruits I only claim, Freely partake and live. The hermit a squire's office did To the exhausted knight, At the motto on his pennon graved The hermit's face grew white. He took the helmet off his head. He wrung his rain-soaked hair. The knight's cold limbs be kindly chafed l\ 57 And epoko him words of cheer. The knight thus used, sincerely blest The hermit of the dell, He begged the reverend sage his life^ Unto him he would tell. Not now, my son, the sage replied, And a sigh escaped his breast, To morrow when thy strength returns^ This night must see thee rest. He led him to his leafy couch, He hummed a lullaby, With pleasure saw, despite the storm,. His quietly closed eye. The hermit then folded his hands An Ave Maria said. And peacefully his bending form Oc a bed of rushes laid. Next morn before the sun arose The hermit left his bed, Caparisoned the grazing steed And to the cell him led. The sleeping youth he next awoke And spread the morning's fare, His blessing gave, then staff in hand To show the way prepared. Holy Father ! the young man cried. Your life to me now tell, 1: ri *9. i: M". I: 68 'i^TiJ I As we dcsceDd this mountain path And track this lonely dell. My deeds, dear son, the hermit said. By wandering bards are sung. Within thy father's splendid halls Oft has my fame been rung. The Earl of Selden's son thou art. Thy father fixed my fate, lie spoiled me of my rank and land By falsehood to the State. The knight of Otha's field you see. Droop not, I can forgive. My false friend's treachery time has dimmed With God in peace I live. My son, arise, kneel not to me, With pleasure I restore "Thee to a father's loving arras Refreshed at his exile's door. The youth knelt on the mountain side. Bathed the hermit's feet with tears, Honors, he cried, shall still be thine If Heaven my life spares. » ^he hermit smiled, he raised the youth. But shook his silvery head, Here let me live unknown and poor, Ambition's wish has fled. 59 He pointed with his staff the way, When yoa the Earl of Selden tell Of this adrentare, and my name It is the Hermit of the Dell. THOrCHTSON VICE. Pause, mortals, in jonr life's career, Inspect the road joa ran. The flowery paths of vice beware, Her false allarements shan. ox FRIENDSHIP. Friendship's sweet name thy holy love Is borrowed from the skies, A solace thoa on earth dost prove, A sacred healing prize. & THE HEMLOCK TU^T. A tender taft of the hemlock tree The spring had called to birth, I, thoughtless, preyed so radely That it fell upon the earth. The parent boah next I roagfaly tried Its aged fringe to woond. Bat it grown strong by time, defied My feeble power to woand. And thas I thoaght it was with life When tender youth 'a ri 1^ .1 in 60 1'' 'It «*- Too rndely by this world^s strife He seeks the grave for rest. ^ The grief that seems to youth so hard The aged sight scarce see, And silver locks life's storms v;ill bravo Like the parent hemlock tree. And time will steel the tender heart And blunt the youthful sorrow, The cares that seem so hard to day Will be forgot to morrow, And lovely hope will bloom again Though death its blossoms see, And joy, though nipt, once more revive Like the tuft of the hemlock tree. -*-- RCXAWAT RECLUSE. 'Twas evening, and the dying sua The abbey decked with light, Its windows and its stately dome * Were blazed with beauty bright, Trees ricti with foliago decked the gronndr Spread like a flowery pall. The canopy of Heaven over head With ruby tints did fall. The vesper bell had ceased to toll Within eacb convent cell, The Nuns were kneeling humbly, Their heads to the cross fell, 61 Plainly clad in habits gray Their orisons were said, , Daily, to Mary throned on high, This nunery favor paid. One form in robes of enowy hue Bent not to our lady's shriuo, Tbo' her clasped hands were rais'd to heaven Il^r eyes with pleasure shine, Oppression fierce hnd placed her therf, This night a lover bold Avowed to rt-1'Mif-.e the fair roc! use, Her hand in wedlock hold. The midnight bell has tollM the hoar, A stealthy step is henrd — A knight's — within the abbey walls, iiv) breathes the love watchword, "With morning's ray tiie fair recluse Became a baron's bride, A fairer dame was never seen Thau her of Brackden's side. I i- r TAB SWEST— TUB STING, A nest of bees, young Mary cries Unto her cousin Jane, I think is in this hollow log, HooQy we may obtain. Take care, my dear, said cousin Jane, Though honey's sweet to eat, ^■'. i* iJi'l 62 Remember you the sting may get, But.Dotbiog of tlie sweet YooDg Mary the rich dainty store In thought now filled her mind, And busy like was soon employed The honey cells to find. Buz went a bee, she heeded not, So she obtained the prize, That passing bee soon in revenge Stung one of her blue eyes. She shrieked with pain, but would not let Her labor thus be lost ; She heeded not Jane's to come home, The rubbish still she tossed. But luckles Mary's fate was come, Of bees rushed out a score. Hands, neck, and face they cruelly wound. Regardless of her roar. With hazel twig she laid about And killed many a bee. Bonnet in hand, such havoc made Till alive none could she see. And now she rushed towards her prize, The nest safely to secure, Alas ! the cells with young were filled, No hocey now did lure. Poor Mary with vexation screamed, Soothed by the gentle Jane ; 63 My dear, tbe world 'a sweets oft deceive, Thestiug oDly doesiemaio. TBE YOrKO WIFE. ri** Droop not young wife, Xor weep bucli pleuteotci tears, Though be tby bosom's Icid Hath proved unkiud, Tbe world is full of woe and thou must bear a part. I know 'tis he .rd, thy woman's trust thus blighted — Thy last fond hope destroyed, Yet patience, thou, the load may disappear, And sunny love may yet be thine, He may repent him of bis cruelty. If time, stern tutor doth reveal to thee Thou are deceived, and he resolved is to be a tyrant, Still try dry tears, trust thou in God for he can Heal thy wound, though bitterly it Rankles in your heart. Ask thou for peace, and be will give it thee, Seek thou the heavenly balm, it is already thine ; What though you sit so desolate to weep, Ar.d think V.v^ ^ravo cnn only give you rest. Droop not 1 1 say, for He who rules the world Can be thy comforter: entreat Him, and he will Ne'er forsake thee in thy grief ; though man hatb Failed God cannot fail. Ob ! then, how truly Bich are all his promises. 1 feel for tbee, young wife. 64 ^'jiU' ii. .Mm 1 see thy cheeks are pale, That hope no longer beameth in thine ejes; But day and day to thee are all the same ; What prospect in the morrow — Yet droop not. Hope can revive again, when nipM and blighted Joy doth return a^ain, though long departed, And smiU)3 b3 ours instead of tears. As sunshine in th3 world dispels the darkness, One joy can yet be thine : 'tis not a small one — •The consolation sweet of doing what is right ; The peace which flaws from virtuous ways and deeds: Then, if thy huibanl wroai; thoe, wrorfg not him. If be neglect his duty, forget not thine, For evil God hath said ri'tarn thou good. Obey, and He will bless thee with IT is peace — Thy heait will s.nile whea thy moek face is grave. LINES TO A LITTLE BIItD. # Yes, lift thy voice in gladness soft singer of the wood. Id thankfulness for thy joys to the giver of all good ; Be free and happy now, and tune thy notes of pralsct Perchance some lonely wanderer's low spirits you may raise, Oae cares for thee. He loveth all: let thy sweet mu- sic tell There is a brighter world than this where ransomed spirits dwell, •}<^ 65 ieeds: him. ive. I of the good ; I praisef ts you )t mu- isomed And charm tho fainting pilgrim that travels life's rough plain, Singing the way to yon blue sky, and bid him smile again. ♦ CONFIDEKE IN GOD. 1 was friendless and God was my friend, In want, and food He did send, I was drooping with sickness and woe, I was hopeless of comfort below. When lonely 'mid earth's busy scene How brightly did his presence beam,'^ And my weeping met no pitying eye, Then I thought of that friend in the sky. Blessed Father of mercy and truth, The hope and the guide of my youth, When you bade me no longer to pine I was cheered far the promise was thine. May I ever obejMthy kind voice. Nor repine when thy portions my choice, But remember all hardships are sweet That conduct to the Heavenly retreat LINES ON TQE DfiiTl fF AN INFANT. Rest on dear infant'ln the sleep of death, Poor little babe thy sufiferings now are o'er, 'Siii I 66 5o early nip! — how fle tinjr waa tby breath 5ooD SDatched away, and thou will weep no more. Jhort was the time thy mother was allow'd ^o feel a mother's joy illame her breast, *oor feeble waller, e'er she saw the shroud l>^ *repare herlDfaot for its final rest. ^hy little life was in continual pain, leath marked thee from thy sad unthnely birth, i mother's tenderDess for thee was vain, trief was thy jonrcey on this rugged earth. 'ain would a mother s heart have bid thee stay ""God had pleaited to let thee here abide, nt to the skies though early called away 'aith bidf he :aj 'tis better thus she died. )leep, my lost babe iu yonder little grave, 'arfrom the worU and all its bitter cares, I'he Lord is free to take the life he gave, i'lis love encirele3 thco and dries thy tears. >6ar infant, born to suffering and to die, . ; 'he pitying angel bore thee to a home, hormed in thai Heavenly place above the sky, :7here Cherubs sing around Jehovah's Throne. A'4 } ..» i TBB GiLlET 8Li¥E. In vain do I languish and mourn, la va^D I so often do sigh, ^ For the pleasores will never retara (»>;♦ M* 1 tasted in hours gone by. Bright moniiDg seems ne'er to arise But to call to the labor I bear, And Iho sun iu the fed Western skies Relieves me not from my care. Years rolleth awav lost iu timo, Bat hope is denied to the slave, And the peace that to others do shine I only expect in the grave. My galley traverses the sea Long burnished by Italy's sod, Long seems the time nnto me Since my life in that 2fall:*v br;:::.:'. The vine covered cot of my yontb, The grey hills that belt my lost horriO,. Where happiness below was a truth, AVhere the world and its snares were uukuowD. O ! could I behold once again My life with content I'd resign, Though sorrow had cast me her chain E'er manhood had lent me its prime. The ruin with moss overgrown, Where Stella at evening I met. Where reciprocal lovo we did own. How can I that scene e er forget. Vain wislies lie still in my breast, For still I must ply the rough oar ; My corpse in that land cannot rest When my tears and my groans arc no more. 1: 68 Oaee with freedom I mounted the steep, With glee the light chamois to diase, Cleared the rocks that with rivulets weep, And liberty's sweets I did taste. Th'^ z^'-pbyrs lluU fanned my young hrow .'■ ■> rre?r did jduy tlian my lio-irt. .-^ : - ;a ijr-'"'! by cjpiivity now i v.] cU]', for my WW} tod-part. TflS TRi!(SPO]lT. ..f ,6 ^ twilight wa-s Tjtliojr from Sidney's shore, p sua's glorious beiiuty lor Xhia day was o'er, o bright skies oi evening imparted its beam, d the stais purple canopy curtained the scene 'len a transport approached by sorrow oppressed, ' looked up to Heaven and hoped for its rest. *3aik cloak euclos^d hint, his head was bent low, 3 words bespoke auguisb, and keenly of woe, ^my country, he sighed, beyond the salt wave, cc exiled from thee may I soon find a grave, ' sympathy here to this soil doth me bind, und my own native land every wish is entwined. e flowers here blooming so lovely and bright, ,d scenes rich to nature are spread to ray sight, 8 lilly and violet of my country's dell, e birds that in concert their tuneful tbroats swell, r dearer to me each simpler charm, the land Tar away that I love still so warm. u»- 69 My babes' ro?y faces must 1 iif vur more scp, Nor the frieiiil of my bosom smilo sweetly on me : The cot of my fathor, iho cburch yard of yore, Where slnopotb my kindred, must I never see morALE. I can go no more to Lonedale, Though the Spring time of the year, I can walk no more in Milton grove. Though ihc birds are singing clear, I can list no more the streamlet That warble.; fhro'jgh the Vale, Nor view the lovely flowers that gem The meadows of Lonedale. I can go U3 nsore to Lonedale, Nor to Milton Hall repair. 74 i J.: K^ s, I ' ■" '"it , if r ■. I ?.: ■■■ ; ^■ .;,! ■' Il ' ^ ^" t'l *■ ii For Julia*8 voice ot welcome — Her teniler smiles not tliorc. I could not bear her worils if cfild, Nor see her brow of enow Reveal a fro»vn at uiy approacli, I, who h.avo loved lier no. 1 can go no more to Loncdale, ' Nor see it:? streamlet {,Hid(*, For Julia that onco rambled there, She is another's bride. And I might see my Julia hang Upon her husband's arm ; And how co*uld I the ri,,'ht endure And my love still eo warm. /•r t >'-i •:f iI •-'\" ^ 1- ■ f' ) , ' 1 I Come tarry Cotter's daughter, Come tarry here awhile. For summer deckelh nature, And lends hor shining smile. There rest the Colter's dangliter, On the flowera by this rill, A tale of love I will unfold, Reward me as you will. Love binds me, Cotter's daughter My choice it falls on thee, Many an acre is my own, around r 7o •-*• /. I i .1 / The Iialldof niiioiulf)'. I will ilri*(.<8 tlic ('oiler's dang^'iler In silken roles moft fir 0, And pearls amitl tjjy nut-brown lair Eeeplendenlly elinll dliine. A lady, Cotters daughter, A bride I'll make of thee — Ah ! silly maiden turn thy hea^ Nor mark yon strollinj;^ bee. Can'et lovo tnc Cutter's daughter, Sav, wilt thou wed with me — Pshaw ! iieeding stiil the turtle du\ es Upon yon alder tree. Delights, fair Cotter's daughter, Surrounds sweet Hroomlev Hall, And every pleasure shall bo thine Silver or gold can call. I cannot love thee, Broomley's squire, The Cotter's maid replied. And though in silks and jewels dressed I would not he your bride. A happy heart does beat beneath My homely russet gown. Deceit these (lowers never own. That gem my tresses brown. Broomley's rich squire, I am to young n ;fj n < o 6 ' ., ? ^%' 1'hy !ieIpnK)*L* for to he, Thy silver liair, niy nnt-'urowu locks CouUl never seemly be. ft * Tempt me no mor«^ with ric:ief. Let my abode be still In tlie ivy Cottage by the grcvc Where curls a babbling rill. The woodlark sings my latt'^o near, Sweet (lowers i?ceuc my room, i, My mother fol-Jj? uie to hf»r brenjjtj My father smiles at noon. Then wonder not I do nc^t smile, My band and heart give thee, ; ♦^i For a Cotter's happy dauglitcr [ onlv wisli to be. -i ( Farewell, t»weet Colter'*? da'^ghter, Tlu)U hast gri(.-ved thii heart of mine, Bnt when thine liMiid slial! Ide?s some youth, A rieii dower jshail be thine. ' y , •tA L4DY Ax\D FJIIIE~A DUTW stay I slay ! tiiee holy F*iiir, In pity Tor these weeds, And tell mo if within von fort A captive my lord bleeds. Thou hast been there, kind, holy Friar, 77 A Hhiiviiig einful man — Relieve a wife from tlrcadotl woo?, From aii^uUh if you can. . No sinful man have I confessed, Within yon caatlc strong ; Tell me in haste you* in )rtal \Vi)e, And why you euiTcr wrong. 0, Friar ! did vou mark the elrJii That round that CListle lie, r i Perhaps my doaret^t lord, alas ! With others there did die. , ^ You could not pass his manly hrow Without a lingering glance, His golden locks and azure eye Has met thy ga/e perchance. It is not so fair lady sad, He a strangtn- is to me, And gladly would I calm thy woe, And dry the tear^ i see. Lady, farewell, my bled.si ng take, My matins an; not said, That I have vowed to our lady, This morning should be paid. Oh tarry yet thou holy Friar, Upon my knoes — I pray, Spurn thou not the widow's prayer, Rat lis! to what I yay. And tell me how I may obtain , • *,M - I • ?•■ i , ,>■*■•' 78 :i t t Some ttiai^s of my lord — This rin,' prepent at .Alogsly Towni Anil claim a rcli nwanl. A knight that loosed !ii$ inii < hain By tread cry from the foe, Delnden's knight, his nidllo truthi To hin for tidings ^^o. Tho huly's incck eye^ Ciishcd like tire, While proudly ehe cried, Friar, 'tis false, my nohle lord With baseness ne'er did side ! O'.j'i^nar n'vc^r si.iir^o.l h's s!iie!a, Oftr?n^od oil haUlo ground, " Friar, beware, liow thou dost broach Such fal^vhood nh)re around ! Sweet ladv, inoilcrate thiue ins Tiiy hunband's strange to me, And Linden's knight, a lovely dame Does bear hin) company. Thy tale i? false, thou Friar base, • Heaven be praised he is a'ive. With tears 1*11 win my way to him, '' Tho' danger strong betide. Stay, Mary, stay, thy Linden's hero Concealed by Friar's dress, From bondage (roe thy failh has proovcd,. Weep, Mary, on his bretist I « . i / V .« I. ; >',. , ifi .' rt:;, r ft , 70 I Fi'OWtR riRL'S CRY. 'J . ^.i ,i <; i The puii had towcr'd above Ihc bill, And tipt the mount with gold, ; .■ Wen Roea did her basket fill With flow'rets to be sold. The maiden left her hninblo tot, In the niailiot town to cry, KoBeg rare, and lilies fair ; Ladies, will you buy ?' • » ; Eosa^B voice was rich and clear, When called forth by son^, ' Her face was sweet, surpassing fair. With eilkcn ringlets liuiig. Her dimpled arm the basket I ore, Where beauteor.s flowers lie. Whilst she sings, " My lilies fair, Come ladies, will you buy'?'' Her only care, that she may sell TFer posies 'fore 'tis noon, And swift return then to the dell, To help her mother soon. The sickly dame would then embrace ilcrcLilvI, uuh iiiuhlv2» to Heaven high,' That roses rare and (low'rets fair, The cily ladies e'er might buy. The face of Ro^a uo't r is {*Ad, Ever cheerful is ler smili*. if f^^^ •I ji k\ .*' 1 ,' ' 's .,'* "I m «r ?he ihoa ber paieut's heart makes glad, Uejoicing in her child. Cffcrs to part them Roea pcorns, Thoagh poor, contentjto cry — ** Roses rare, and lilies fair ; Ladiee, will vou buy ?" 1 > // I J : • 1^ , .^ : ' *y > r , THE IL0.^K OF DAY, How fleeting are all earthly things, '* '' ' <■ ^'"^'''^ Another day has gone, ir)iW And eveLir.ijj piiintd the Western sky . i,.^,> :^ • Where suik the susiimcr'a £un. , ,- Acd thn? the age of giddy youth ,,, Is like a short lived day, He smiles nor marks the rolling hours That steals his bloom away/ , ./ihtil ■ rrsu .' .Tis night auli Her gtarry diadem. .._^ '^ ^^laL The birds have hushed their vesper hymns, '^" And sweetly they repose, Thus Heavenly peace my bosom^flll ' '■ -^'V When life to me shall close. ; Tbos we should learn by flying time , The passing of a day, To lay rich treasures up in Hoaven When death shall^CRU awuy. ^m 81 ■// I ;i : ..J' 'Oh ■'if i ■•- : i i at. V •IT ADDRESS ,10 A FAVOSITE COW. My father's cow, a mooly rare, AS ever gave white milk so clear, ytaod tb^ro and chew thy cad ; I loved to eee thy streaked face, Thy mild cow eyes now keep thy place, Tis pleasaut where thou stood. Oi:ce I was called when quite a child To view thy form, a calf most wild, Within yon pasture green ; I saw thy jumping with surprise, Wilh grief 1 heard thy bleating cries, For thou wast hard to wean. ^'^ T { Lii- And then when thou hadst grown a cow, And hopes and icars had crossed ciy brow, l And youth's swoet golden dreams, I loved to wander at mv will In search of tuee by wood and rill, *'** ' "* When summer deck'd the scenes.' ''"■^ Now mooly thou art changed by time, . For thou art old, and ofispriug thine / . Are resting in the yard ; And I am changed, the earth no more Will shine as then ; my dreams are o'er — This world has proved heard. ' ' But God is kind and Heaven ia fair, . ^ My bop8»,aDd aims are fixed there, No cruel fate can blast ; 6 »' ■it > 82 It '^' ¥U 1 <» Tbeo come sweet peace, I'll praise tLe Lord, And thank Uim that faith does afford . . A hope that anchors fast. ' .( ^ ! i :t> */. THE PLOUGHHAN. '^ *<^- ' «i^ Ye beatings of my heart bo still, Ye sighs that do my bosom fill Depart ; nor e're return — This morning is the first of May, The birds do sinf?, the lambs do play, Ab ! why then do ye mourn ?. IT oT iV/ 4. J 10l. The flowers around perfume my feet, The hawthorn on the gale is sweet, The golden Bun shines clear ; I never saw a fairer morn j r<>,fii imdi lu A The merry first of May adorn — rod 1.:k Alas ! all seems too fair. OJ hoTtl I 1 never saw the fields more green, Nor smoother flow yon glassy stream. Than 1 behold them now ; Yet sorrow weighs upon my heart, And girlish like, a tear will start, And aching is my brow. ■ivn Ye little birds in pity stay. The rural music that ye play ; Your joys increase my pain. No ploughman whistled once more c^ay^ By morning's light or evening d ray — , n- ,' r\0 rt / I he A r 83 Will joy return again ? .f .^. 'JCXr My memory fails, I had to cull Bome ot these flowers, this hawthorn pull To deck my mother's cot ; - * I bad half forgot a chaplet too, I was to weave, dear Fan, for you — Blest is your humble lot. Content to fill your humble sphere, To milk your cows, to brew your beer- Nor know the woes I feel ; In vain desires my lot to raise, To see no more a ploughman's days — Would fortune turn her wheel. V vM zx It is the young, the lovely maid, '^^ j^^M rT That owns yon mansion in the shade^ That causes me such woe ; Before I saw her kind, dark eyes A ploughman I did not despise, Nor felt my lot so low. do ttl She walked this morn among the flowere, She strayed amid the leafy bowers All glittering with the dew j • 7iiH And I beheld her from afar. And distant hopes did fancy draw That never will prove true. How fair the robe the heiress wore. Yet one kind smile would charm me more Than all she calls her own, i - -^ ' mtmlimitm^t u$^» ■ «fc ' 84 Though extensive are her rich tlomaiu3, ,1 ':> % (M Fertile her fields and sweeping plaii-s, AodspleDdid is her home. v:i,v is j.ho not some village maid •^''' ^^^ ^ Thui i nJ -ht praise, nor be afraid ^^ ^'';' ^ how much I love ? '"' ^^^i^ J \ Or w'l" .:i J uot my uuUiuJ iato ^ Fjr aiw ^ r J Jiot a nobler stale, ^ ^^j ,• ,, r That Hh'3 was cot abovu ? ;7 0:jjI io>f My very clothes appear so mr)an, _ ^^,^ ^, When I survey ; it seems a dream , y. That I should bo so bold To lift my eyes to one whose dress'd > ? ^ In pearls and satins of the best, ^ ^„'„ j ^^..^ t' And lovely to behold. -^uu^ j/iiiX Oh ! foolish youth to waste your time ,^ , . In golden hopes that falsely shine ^^^ To lead you but astray ; In useless dreams that are in vain ^Uw ^B The flatterers of joy and pain — jjai;^ ^^ Have courage and be gay. ■; -".'^ v ". e, Thus thought the youth, of sorrow'? frown, Leaving his seat with daisies grown^ ^ And whistled for awhi'6 ; There is Ned and Will — both wait for me, { The May day festival Illsoe, j^f He said without a smile. r 1 will lift my (lowers and away ft5 , Ad'I soe Iho May day games to day, Whore, pcrbnps, my grief will flee ; Yet still the ploaghrnan drooped his head, I know bis thoughts by what be said — Must I a ploughman be ? TliK WILD WOOD JAT. List to the music sweet That through the wood does ring ; Hark to the variouj notes Of birds upon the wing. Oh I mark with me that cry Heard from this woodland way j It is the call of a bird well known^ The cry of the Wild Wood Jay. The Sweet WilJiam pours it song, Tho Robins' n^iustrelsy beside ; The Goldfiinch tunes her throat, Her skill with success is tried. The Ring Doo's gentle coo, The Thrush 'neath the tender rpray ; Though rich their united strains Give me the Wild Wood Jay. Come rove with nie this wood, Grateful is the forest shade ; The mysteries with me trace, In its deep rece?ses laid. While we find the shrinking flower "f m *u 86 .h >■ That gems this green pathway, I will tell you Lucy, dear. Why I love tho Wiltl Wood Jay. Mid these thick bushes wild Plainly our steps are heard, The crackling branch has hushed To stillness the singing bird. When in childhood the forest track ' Oft became my favorite way. Its stillness was cheered as now, { By the cry of the Wild Wood Jay. » n ♦ f'O Gay was her plnmage blue . Upon my youthful sight, , ^^, ^ ,| Still memory so dear ^ , j.p Does make its beauty bright. A tale dwells in that lov'd sound ' Of many a by gone day, ^^.^^^ Of young life's hopes and dreams, '^' The waker the Wild Wood Jay. I • .^ii 1 '- ^A '*Jii THE BATTLE FIELD. The snow lay on the battle field, A winding sheet for the frozen dead. And many a dying warrior's go**' Had stained the snowy covering red. Fate now had stayed the conqueror's blow, The boundless sway of Napoleon's reign, And Moscow's frost and Russia's snow 87 Sucocssfa!lj tbe hero cbained. A woooded joatL lay ou tie sdow, And hU fine eyes once strange to fear ' Now droopiDg sank beneath death's hands That soon wil! stay his life's career ; With visage pale, desparing look, While from his bieist n crimson tide Unheeded flowed, his mantle souked, His bed of scow with purple dvel. A heap of slarn pillowed h's head, No aid nor comfort there was nigh, No haman sonad refieshed his ccr, Bat dying groans, death's bitter sigh From his brare comrades in arms, Now wellering on the battle field ; Alone in death, from kindred far, With nonght from Russia's frosts to shield. This yoathfnl bero left his home 1q eager search of the phantom fame, To have his life's yoangsan thus set, ObliTion to enshroud his name. Fresh from the halls of laughing France, The srav saSoons that Paris grace, The conrted bean of fashions train, And plea^'i'nes gay and giddy race. w'U I ^ He knew tbat morn would ne'er expand Its beaaties to his dying eyes ; In prayer he conid no solace find. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k /, / i/.. & ^ 1.0 I.I 11.25 l^l^a |2.5 |5o ■^" HHi I!: 1^ mil 2.0 iA IIIIII.6 «^ V] /a o 7 /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 .VtsT MAI*^ STREET v\ 7?iSTER. N.y. MS 80 (/16) «72-4»03 ■1>^ V :\ \ iS^ o"^ '^ .!v f < 88 I v; •^iiJjT!^8'.>oo«8 No hope had he b3jocd tie skies. He ihonght of the fad'ng joys of lifo, The worldly rraise Le songht to win, Bat babbles of a momeat's tijre i^-tQ/ b9l".'*B0''' A Now empty trifles seemed to him. T<|' ^^^'^ aid |,q^^ Again he thought oflovcd Lisset, '^. ^ And of a broseu hearted sue, . , .__^ And srladlv .Toald have we!comed hope ,. ,. ,^-r^ To qaeccQ his heart s despa nil j^ nre ; ,. , , . .^ Bat hope a native of the ekies , . , ... The «rav voun? woridliucr would not cheer, Aod death with all its horrors choscd ... . . This officer s worldly career. .; v ^ . ,^ w/ iiiml) hoinoo i!f:» im.^i i>n ^ ; ; ' ,8f^/;o'£^ %jni7b3i!B. . THE RiaiSLE, ytiiid nd ivo'\% Mychildtheeveisfair, ...d / . ./i Uer fields we will stray v, . To mark the beauties of the parting day ;' Behold the splendor of the dyiqg sua , . .,,- And think of him who bado its task be don»,^ And see the varigated purple sky . m fi 'p And know 'twas God, its varied tints did tlye—, . ' That little fill by niaBY a hillock wound, , , rv To fertilize for man this pasture ground, ^ ..^ And it, my dear, a lesson does impart * ,,„ Of nseralness where life to all is short, , , Of good to others and of calm content, Tboofifh earth its riches to thoe has not ^:nt~,, * ^rt See here, a violet lurks and teacheth theo :f„pp,.{ ^.^j t • ■■ .tijX'sj'-, ^ im m Our Saviour's charge to men, bumiliiy ; '' " What beauties it can boast, and vet It hides riit^i)! lU modest face, fair tiny flower so prized ; 'I^'VJ Too often crushed beneath oar careless feet To scent in kind return with grateful sweet -'^^ ^^f! J. My child observe the ants upon this hill And glean the wisdom that their care instill ; And lay up treasures in the heavenly land While youth and health lend thee a wiiling hand. Julia, here comes a toiling honey beo, wj vytxl Homewards it wings, its lucious burden see ; : »dT Mark the load of wax it carries to the hive.* "•-'^ « * From the bee let^rn labor, love it and youll thrive ; Foresee, like her, the winter of the year, .,^ ..._ For storms and feeble age thyself prepare. aoir bnA Dear child no longer view that giddy fly,' ' '^ ' Though rainbow hues its amber wings bedye ; . All is not precious that is decked in gold, ,^, .,|, And diamond lustre no. real value own : . |^ This useless insect of the sumnier hour Will breatlie its last with summer's painted flowers. The lovely flower that o'-er your hand does stoop, So pitiless the noontide sun did droop ; Its curious cup and silken' texture view, No weaver's satin has so rich a hue,. v--/T And think, if God, a fading flower thus clothed — Will he forget thy raiment, warm or cold ? How fair is nature, it is wisdom's page, , .^^^^ A book of knowknlge each succeeding age^ ,; / . The very dews now falling on the earth, ^ , 90 ^'l'|.' 'bM U^/ Refreshing verdant life ; granting new birth, iJVT With morning's ray upon the grass will shine, ' s)l The flowers pitying that at eve did pine ; ^-vvi' The flocks and herds now feeding on you lea — T Thy hand, my dear, we'll go the sheep to see ; These resting sheep and lambs how meek they ' look tfUi uaai^ tMijn So often mentioned in God's holy book. ^ ^-^' "''^ Now twilight gray has east its shadows dim, linl The birds have sung their last vesper hymn -JoTI In praise of God, they never do forget ; .i:'Ai^if In this, my Julia, they example set ; ^- §-* ni .>i1 Let not the birds in praise sweet music pour ■^<»'^ And you forget the Lord you should adore. '^* "^^^^ Behold o'er yonder trees the evening star Twinkling so bright in its blue home afar, ." And see the crescent moon, her diadem, The golden stars that Heavea's curtain gem ; Homewards we'll go by this Ethereal Light, A blessing ask of Him, the king of night. 6 teod ^} H A >aA i.>li i.' ^T v; ' THE LlTTLl^ G&iV£S« There are two little graves in yon churchyard, A mother's fondest hopes lie buried there ; Two babes there slumber in the sleep of death, Lost to the world, unknown to all its care ; Their mother wept the more to think of two Thus gone, that both her babes must die ; Mother, in bitter grief, forget not hope 91 T^or your lost treasures safe iu Heaven lip. The more you loved them the more you try, To seek the road that leads to their abode, Those babes will make more bright the Heavenly way, . . ... And smiling point to you the Saviour's road ; The Lord la mercy took them ; bow your head In full submission to his chasteciug rod ; He knows the best ana would not have a hope To tempt thee to forget He is thy God. The means were blest unto that mother's soul, She seeks out Heaven for her hopes are there, Her pride is humbled, she the world forgoe?. Her sins acknowledged and her Saviour dear ; And she has Heavenly hope and doth confess That God is good to us wbate er betide ; His name is love thaugh he doth punish man For his rebellion — for his sins and pridr. iK ':i^^. !,;<.:: THE FrGIllVE. •v,qr A female wept midst forest trees Standing in tall array, No path between the wood she sees To point her tangled way ; She sat upon a tree decayed. She looked to where the sky With welcome light its hues displayed Through the matted leaves on high. A rosy babe laid on some raoss, 92 \^'(^'-' ■«->.•- •^In- Its little pvrs wore closed, „^i— Unconscious of the slightest los?, rr Or it3 fuintino-mothor's woas. ,■,. She looked npou hei blistered feet, / ^ To every bramble bare, ,,.« She knelt and kissed the babe asleep, ,, Droped on its face a tear. <• For whiit then crossed tlie mctber's hearty ^ fehe must ailharnships try, . , . She cannot, with ber nnrsan;^' part, ' ^ Oh ! better tar to die ; , , ,-^y She raised her h&nd^: rcdaced and weak ,,. To press her buruiuir bead, . . ,. -^ Thin and sallow was her cheek, . „ Health's rosy bloom had fled. '^, \ , . . v ^ fill 9ti3 brsA Her clothes were by the bashes torOr^'^* tijdT Fatigne her body bent, '■ •^''" 5f«'"" siH No screen upon her head is worn } ^'" "^^ * Whether sua or rain is sent ; For she had fled ic? macy i\ milo From Vi'here smoke aud purple flame Seized on her honio.'TiS wooden pile A ruin black uecan::c. ■ ■ . r -', And dearly loyed were those cocsdmedf "^^ Amid the killing leaf, • Of ghastly flanne that night illuraed '^- ^ With many a purple sheet. The red man's knife with crimson hue Had pierced their bosoms warm. 93 f^ 11 ♦I H A IT M ft And what tl.en coald from d 'ath rescue Whea tiu.t dreaded weapon's drawn. Their tomb was iu the raging ffrc, .^^'r And met no pitying eye, Save her's, who weakness bade expire, -o*^ For her iiifant's sake to fly. "oCI She fled witli; morning's early fay, ;tsaw rn'l The dire and disnial scene, --'.JH hzh The bahe pressed to lior bosom lay, ^ *^=J7^'r^ She wandered hy hopes gleam. ''-^ ^^^ - .^b:ia woliiq va'oai ad J .'n<*d indT A fugitive for many a ^w^j ,rrf r,fjrf -qo*^! Throuf^b wood and wild did go, But trackless was the lonely way, -*oy; woVl The end Low could she know, i \^^'S\ Now sinking nature she sustained -J ^^JJ h\h With forest food and plant, 'ri:^ toU When stillness unbroken reigued 'JOin aM T She knell kind Heaven to thank, "^ol ^rn The babe awoke, with circling rfrm Baised from his mossy bed. On her bosom frt-ev"' from all alarm, >> Where chance its guidance led ; And what then could her ioce heart cheer Bat hope in mercy given, For the dear one her wanderings share, Her trust reposed in heaven. Iu this Vuct uiG^ry colitudj No human aid was nigh, But when she prayed for fortitude 94 The heavens ueared to her cry. When night dismal'd her weary goal The air was tempered aiild, Her mossy pillow sleep would hail Though in a frightful wild. But hope.so long deferred, at last Doubtful had made her breast, For weary days had wandered past And still their was no rest, Sweet nourishment forsooth her babe, The forest food forsook, That bard the mossy pillow made, Poor pilgrim in distresp. ja/. 1«! Now trouble prayed Kpoa her miad. Despair embjtter'd grief, ., jy i> IT Sle the nearest was to EUQCoar find For the suffering's relief. This morn her rose with heart more Bad To track her wretched wajy, i;d 'ydT •1. V r.iUJ i? I ^1