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The warmth which hailed them thine and mine,

The welcoming caress !—

They miss thee much, but not so much
As he who still must mourn :—
I miss thy kind hand's filial touch,
Which asked the kind return ;—

Where'er I tread I miss thy feet,
Which safely guided mine ;—
I miss thee in the peopled street,
And where the waters shine!

What pleased thine eye, I saw it then-
Thy sight was sight to me ;-
But all that's fair to happier men
Is lost in losing thee!

They told me thou wert comely too ;—
My fingers oft would trace
Thy young and gentle features through,
And find in them a grace,-

A something in thy open brow

Which spoke the enlarging mind ;-
But all my pride with thee is low,
And I am lone and blind!

My sightless orbs will upwards turn,

As if to look for thee

In that far world, which I must earn

With years of misery!—

I wake the organ's voice, and think

I hear thee answering:

But down my baffled spirits sink,
And tears immediate spring!

The tears are vain which then I shed,But who will dare to blame

The grief which bows a father's head,
That wears a father's name?

My cherished boy-my only one-
My joy in misery-

My hope in age-my gifted son,

Would I had died with thee!

TO A DYING INFANT.

MISS BOWL ES.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be!

Oh! many a weary wight,

Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! the little bosom

Labours with shortening breath :— Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh !—

Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,

Baby, thou seem'st to me!

Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew-
Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

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Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit, haste, depart!And is this death ?-dread thing!

If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

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Thou weepest, childless mother!
Aye, weep-'t will ease thine heart ;-
He was thy first-born son,

Thy first, thine only one;

'T is hard from him to part!

'Tis hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp cold earth,-
His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber,

His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then, wakened with a start,
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half-conscious why)

A dull, heart-sinking weight,

Till memory on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,

That thou art desolate!

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