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BALLAD.

97

Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie,

He calls thee his sweet wee wife,
But let not thy little heart think, Genie,

Childhood the prophet of life:
It may be life's minstrel, Genie,

And sing sweet songs and clear; But minstrel and prophet now, Genie,

Are not united here.

What will thy future fate be, Genie ?

Alas! shall I live to see!
For thou art scarce a sapling, Genie,

And I a moss-grown tree !
I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie,

Thou art in blossom sweet;
But think betimes of the grave, Genie,
Where young and old oft meet.

Miss JEWSBURY.

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98

TEMPUS FUGIT.

TEMPUS FUGIT.

Down the dark tide of time, with flow

Unceasing, hath another year
Its record borne of joy and woe,

Hope, exultation, fear-
With constant force through shade and sun,
The swelling stream hath hurried on,
And Aung its shattered wave at last
Into the ocean of the past.
Pass on-returniess years! ye bring

Nearer the golden age of Time-
When man, no more an abject thing,
Shall from the sleep of ages spring,
With new-born life, and proudly Sing

Aside his bondage and his crime,
And rising in his manhood, be
What God designed him-pure and free.

W. H. BURLEIGH. KIND RED

HEARTS.

99

KINDRED HEARTS.

MOTHER, there's no soft hand comes now
To smooth the dark curls o'er my brow;
I hear no voice so low and mild
As that which breathed " my own loved child."
No smile will greet, no lips will press,
No

prayer will rise, no words will blogs,
So fond, so dear, so true for me
As those I ever met from thee.

Oh! that my soul could melt in tears,
And die beneath the pain it bears ;
The grief that springs, the thoughts that goad,
Become a heavy maddening load;
For all that heart or memory blends
But hotly scathes and sorely rends;
And feeling, with its biling fangs,
Tortures with sharp and bleeding pangs.

My Mother! thou didst prophesy,
With sighing tone and weeping eye,
That the cold world would never be
A kindred resting place for me!
Oh, thou wert right! I cannot find
One sympathetic link to bind,
But where some dark alloy comes in
To mar with folly, wrong, or sin.

100

KINDRED

HEARTS.

My Mother ! thou didst know full well
My spirit was not fit to dwell
With crowds who dream not of the ray
That burns the very soul away.
That ray is mine; 't is held from God,
But scourges like a blazing rod,
And never glows with fiercer flame
Than when 't is kindled at thy name.

My Mother! thou 'rt remembered yet
With doting love and keen regret ;
My birth-day finds me once again
In fervent sorrow, deep as vain.
Thou art gone forever, I must wait
The will of Heaven, the work of fate.
And faith can yield no hope for me
Brighter than that of meeting thee.

ELIZA COOK. LIFE IN

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MINIATURE.

101

LIFE IN MINIATURE.

Hail, to this teeming stage of strife!
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
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 could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee !
'Tis nature's worship--selt-confessed,
Far as the life which warms the breast;
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of inan,
In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb--the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.
* *

*
But little reck'st thou, O my child,
or travail on life's thorny wild !
or all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tollering footstep which inclose;
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads het ween

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