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I hear thy whisper—and the warm tears gush Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart!

Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush, The still submission from my thoughts depart.

Dear one! this must not be.

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, The beauty of our free and vernal days,

Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky, Oh! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze!

Thou art all earth to me!

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee;

Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom, They speak of life, of summer, and of thee

Too much-and death is here!

Doth our own spring make happy music now,
From the old beach roots flashing into day?

Are the broad lilies imaged in its flow?
Alas! vain thoughts! that fondly thus can stray

From the dread hour so near!

If I could but draw courage from the light Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless!

-Not now! 't will not be now!-my aching sight Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness

Bearing all strength away!

Leave me! thou comest between my heart and

Heaven!
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die:

Why must our souls thus love, and thus be riven! --Return!-thy parting wakes my agony!

Oh! yet awhile delay!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

SHE stands amidst the glittering crowd,

The same in form and face, As when at first her sweet cheek glow'd,

Even in this very place, The same bright tresses bind her brow,

The same rich pearls her hair, Her lip is just as roseate now,

Her hands as soft and fair.

She looks the same young radiant bride

As when we saw her first,
When in her flush of happiest pride

Upon our eyes she burst;
And even now she leans, as then,

Upon her husband's arm:
Yes—'t is the very same again,

With every faultless charm.

Yet there's a change-her eyes are still

Most beautiful and bright;
But they seem beneath their lids, to fill

With softer, tenderer light.
Her voice is sweet, and rich, and low,

But just as musical;
But 't is grown more like a river's flow,

Than a fountain's laughing fall

Still, still she smiles as radiantly,

When friends are speaking near: But in her smile there's less of glee

And more of bliss sincere. "T is not the brilliant scene around

That her quiet heart beguiles: In her pure spirit may be found

The fountain of her smiles.

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Now, ever and anon, her eye

Is fix'd on vacancy,
And she seems to listen earnestly,

For, 'midst the revelry,
In fancy comes an infant's wail,

Or its murmuring in its sleep;
And the splendid hall seems cold and pale,

When such visions o'er her creep.
And though the scene is very fair,

She wearies for her home,
And thinks the hour to take her there

Will never, never come!
She, who once watch'd the time in pain,

That would too quickly flow,-.
Oh, sure she might be gayer then,
But she is happier now!

ANON.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.
Hast thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?
Then may'st thou mete out a mother's love.
Hast thou talk'd with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witness'd the angels' bright employ?
Then may’st thou speak of a mother's joy.
Evening and morn hast thou watch'd the bee
Go forth ort her errand of industry?
The bee for herself hath gather'd' and toil'd,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.
Hast thou gone with the traveller, in thought, afar,
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast; but on ocean, earth or sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.
And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the loss they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.
There are teachings on earth and sky and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare ;
But louder than voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak in a mother's love.

MRS. HEMANS.

BURNING LETTERS.
FIRE, my hand is on the key,

And the cabinet must ope!
I shall now consign to thee

Things of grief-of joy and hope.
Treasured secrets of the heart

To thy care I hence intrust;
Not a word must thou impart,

But reduce them all to dust!
This-in childhood's rosy morn,

It was gaily fill'd and sent;
Childhood is for ever gone!

Here! devouring element.
This was friendship’s cherish'd pledge

Friendship took a colder form:
Creeping on its gilded edge,

May the blaze be live and warm!
These the letter and the token,

Never more must meet my view:
When the faith has once been broken,

Let the memory perish too!

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Here comes up the blotted leaf,

Blister'd o'er by many a tear!
Hence! thou waking shade of grief!

Go, for ever, disappear!
This was penn'd while purest joy

Warm'd the breast and lit the eye:
Fate that peace did soon destroy ;

And its transcript so must I!
This must go! for, on the seal,

When I saw the solemn yew,
Keener was the pang than steel-

'T was a heart-string snapt in two!
This-'t is his who seem'd to be

High as heaven and true as light;
But the visor rose; and he

Spare, O, mercy! spare the sight
Of the face that frown'd beneath-

While I take it, hand and name,
And entwine it with a wreath

Of the purifying flame!
These—the hand is in the grave,

And the soul is in the skies,
Whence they came !—'t is pain to save

Cold remains of sunder'd ties !
Go together, all, and burn,

Once the treasures of my heart!
Still my breast shall be an urn
To preserve your better part!

Miss GOUID.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

The peace of Heaven attend thy shade,
My early friend, my favourite maid!
When life was new, companions gay,
We hail'd the morning of our day.

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