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A rose he pluck’d, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the muse inspired :
Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace!

How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place

With never-fading love !
There, phenix like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there.
I see thy withering head reclined

With envy and despair :
One common fate we both must prove,
You die with envy, I with love."
“Spare your comparisons,” replied
An angry rose, who grew beside.
“Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a poet do without us ?
In

every love-song roses bloom ;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?"

TO THE POPPY.

GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.

'Tis not because thy brilliant dye
Attracts and cheers my wandering eye
Above all flowers I hold so dear,
For others greater beauty wear,

But for thy latent power

I love thee, scarlet flower,
That shed'st the balmy dew of sleep
On
eyes

that only wake to weep.

TIIE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

ALARIC A. WATTS.

My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my

eyes When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy

feeble cries; For I thought of all that I had borne as I bent me

down to kiss Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud ot

bliss !

I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and

pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my

boding brain; I thought of friends, grown worse than cold-of per

secuting foes, And I asked of heaven if ills like these must mar thy

youth's repose !

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears, Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on

my fears; Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of

gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight

skies are 'round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is

o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no

more! And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed

at thy birth, They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished

things of earth 1

of agony

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child ; but though

brief thy span below, To me it was a little age

and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began

to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my

hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is

dear as thou wert then, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness

and in pain ! And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every

hope was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou

hadst cost!

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day

by day, Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste

away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not

breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's

coming cloud!

It came at length : o'er thy bright blue eye the film was

gathering fast, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest

and the last : In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy

drooping head: A moment more the final pang--and thou wert of the

dead!

Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from

me, And murmured low of heaven's behests, and bliss

attained by thee;

She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so

blest as thine, Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild

as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine

infant brow Culled one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace

now; Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers, not

more fair and sweetTwin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy

feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance

as thou, With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy

brow, They never can replace the bud our early fondness

nurst: They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee, the

first!

The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet

word can bring, Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's de

lightful spring— Of fervid feelings passed away--those early seeds of

bliss That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as

this !

My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and

my

first! When I think of what thou mightst have been, my

heart is like to burst; But gleams of gladness through my gloom their sooth

ing radiance dart, And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I

turn to what thou art !

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of

earth, With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal

birth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many

thirst, And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, my fairest and my

first!

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I saw her once—so freshly fair

That, like a blossom just unfolding, She opened to Life's cloudless air,

And Nature joyed to view its moulding. Her smile it haunts my memory yet,

Her cheek's fine hue divinely glowing, — Her rosebud mouth,—her eyes of jet, —

Around on all their light bestowing. Oh! who could look on such a form,

So nobly free, so softly tender, And darkly dream that earthly storm

Should dim such sweet, delicious splendour ? For in her mien, and in her face,

And in her young step's fairy lightness, Naught could the raptured gazer trace

But Beauty's glow and Pleasure's brightness. I saw her twice,—an altered charm,

But still of magic richest, rarest; Than girlhood's talisman less warm,

Though yet of earthly sights the fairest. Upon her breast she held a child,

The very image of its mother, Which ever to her smiling smiled,

They seemed to live but in each other: But matron cares, or lurking woe,

Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished,

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