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The features once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

"Twas then unwearied, day and night,
I watch'd beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillow'd her poor head.
She lived-she loved me for my care!
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

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;
With fancy, like the wild dove's wing,
As innocent as it is bold.

With sympathies that have their birth
Where woman's best affections lie;
With hopes that hover o'er the earth,
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."

ANON.

AURA VENI.

BALMY freshness! heavenly air!
Cool, oh! cool this burning brow-
Loose the fiery circlet there-
Blessed thing! I feel ye now.

Blessed thing! depart not yet-
Let me, let me quaff my fill:
Leave me not, my soul, to fret
With longing for what mocks me still.

O! the weary, weary nights

I've lain awake and thought of thee! Of clouds and corn, and all sweet sights Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree.

Of running waters rippling clear,

Of merry birds, and gipsey camp,
Then how I loathed to see and hear
That ticking watch-that sickly lamp.
And long'd at least for light again;
For day-that brought no change to me;
The weight was on my heart and brain,
God might remove it-only He.

But now and then the fount of tears,
So seeming dry, was free to flow;
"T was worth the happiness of years,
That short-lived luxury of woe!

And in the midst of all my pain
I knew I was not quite forgot;
I knew my cry was not in vain-
So I was sad, but fainted not.

And now His merciful command
Hath lighten'd what was worst to bear;
And given of better days at hand

A foretaste in this blessed air.

MISS BOWLES

FIRST INQUIRIES.

FATHER, who made all the beautiful flowers,
And the bright green shades of the summer bowers?
Is it the warm beaming sun that brings

The emerald leaves and the blossomings-
Flowers to the field and fruits to the tree?
-Not the sun, my dear child, but one greater than he!

Father, whose hand form'd the blue-tinted sky,
Its colour'd clouds and its radiancy?

What are those stars we view shining in air?
What power ever keeps them suspended there?
Was it man form'd the skies and the glories we see?
-Not man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

Father, from whence came our own lovely land,
With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand;
Its tall frowning rocks and its shell-spangled shore?
Were these not the works of some people of yore?
Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree?
-Not to man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth,

To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth;
His glory alone, love, created on high,

The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky.
It was he form'd the land, and no people of yore.
Bend thy knee, my sweet child, and that God now
adore.

C. SWAIN.

VERSES INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM.

WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers,
To meet the eye of lady gay ?

I have no voice for lady's bowers-
For page like this no fitting lay.

Yet though my heart no more must bound
At witching call of sprightly joys,
Mine is the brow that never frown'd
On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes.

No-though behind me now is closed
The youthful paradise of Love,
Yet can I bless, with soul composed,
The lingerers in that happy grove!

Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take!
Where'er amid its charms you roam;
Or where, by western hill or lake,
You brighten a serener home.

And while the youthful lover's name
Here with the sister beauties blends,
Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim,
That to their list would add a friend's!
FRANCIS JEFFREY.

THE RIVULET.

THIS little rill that, from the springs
Of yonder grove, its current brings,
Plays on the slope awhile, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet when life was new.
When woods in early green were drest,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play;

To crop the violet on its brim,
And listen to the throstle's hymn,
With blooming cheek and open brow,
As
young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came,
And I had grown in love with fame,
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side,
Words cannot tell how glad and gay
The scenes of life before me lay.
High visions then, and lofty schemes
Glorious and bright as fairy dreams,
And daring hopes, that now to speak,
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Pass'd o'er me; and I wrote on high
A name I deem'd should never die.

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill
The tall old maples, verdant still,
Yet tell, in proud and grand decay,
How swift the years have pass'd away,
Since first, a child and half afraid,
I wander'd in the forest shade.
But thou, gay, merry rivulet,
Dost dimple, play, and prattle yet;
And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings of thy silver wave,
And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.

The same sweet sounds are in my ear,
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh the herbs that crowd to drink
The moisture of thy oozy brink;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue;
As green amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress;
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.

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