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Its holy flame for ever burneth,
For oft on earth a troubled ynest,
It soweth here with toil and care,
The babe she has lost in infancy,
I BADE the Day-break bring to me
I ask'd the Noon for music then:
I hasten'd from the restless throng,
Thou Omnipresent Harmony !
THE CHILD AND FLOWERS. Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee ? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild ? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? Yes ; the light form of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song, Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng ; The woodbine, the primrose, the violets dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim: These are old words, that have made each grove A dreary haunt for romance and love ; Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy. Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. O, happy child in thy fawn-like glee ! What is remembrance or thought to thee?
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
For a day is coming to quell the tone
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this ?
THE NEGLECTED CHILD.
I NEVER was a favourite,
My mother never smiled
That bless'd her fairer child :
While fondled on her knee;
There was no kiss for me!
And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense ;
Can rarely give offence;
A cold, ungentle check,
In tears upon her neck.
How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth; Oh, beauty! in my nursery
I learn'd to know thy worth,-
Forsaken and forlorn;
I never had been born!
I'm sure I was affectionate,
But in my sister's face
A smile or an embrace;
The pressure children prize,
They spoke not in my eyes.
The anguish of neglect;
With gems and roses deck'd;
When wantonly reproved,
Of being so beloved.
A time of sorrow too
Her venom'd mantle threw
The features once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death ;
From her infectious breath.
I watch'd beside her bed,
I pillow'd her poor head.
My grief was at an end ;
T. H. BAILY.
A POET'S FAVOURITE. Oh she is guileless as the birds
That sing beside the summer brooks; With music in her gentle words,
With magic in her winsome looks. With beauty by all eyes confess'd,
With grace beyond the reach of art, And, better still than all the rest,
With perfect singleness of heart: With kindness like a noiseless spring
That faileth ne'er in heat or cold ;
As innocent as it is bold.
Where woman's best affections lie;
But fix their resting-place on high. And if, with all that thus exalts
A soul by sweet thoughts sanctified, This dear one has her human faults, They ever “ lean to virtue's side."