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The little all we here can find,
And the dark mystic sphere behind !
Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,
or clouds which gather round thy morn,
Of arts to lure thy soul astray,
Or snares that intersect thy way,
Of secret foes, of friends untrue,
Of friends who stab the hearts they woo;
Little thou reck'st of this sad store-
Would thou inight'st 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;
Beguiled by follies every day,
Sorrow must wash the faults away,
And thou may'st wake perchance to prove

pang of unrequited love.

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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 alloiled 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; the slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief;
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew that cheek;
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,-ah, much too soon I
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all their 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 concealed without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more bless'd,
May joy still animate thy breast,
Still, '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 lise'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 !



M. B.

Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!


TO MRS. M. B. On, be thou bless'd with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend! Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. With added years, if life bring nothing new, But like a sieve let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad reftection more ;Is that a birth-day ? 't is, alas, too clear, 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well-spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face. Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream or ecstasy of joy. Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come.






LET fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de.

stroy ; And which come in the night-time of sorrow and

care, To bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled, Like the vase in which roses have once been dis

tilted; You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.







As o'er the past my memory strays,

Why heaves the secret sigh?
'Tis that I mourn departed days,

Still unprepared to die.
The world, and woriilly things beloved,

My anxious thoughts employed,
And time unhallowed, unimproved,

Presents a fearful void.

Yet, Holy Father! wild despair

Chase from my laboring breast;
Thy grace it is which prompts the prayer;

That grace can do the rest.
My life's brief remnant all be thine :

And when thy sure decree
Bids me this fleeting breath resign,
O speed my soul to thee!


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