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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.
Love watches o'er their birth;
I learn'd to know thy worth,For even there, I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn; And wish'd-for others wish'd it too
I never had been born!
I'm sure I was affectionate,
But in my sister's face There was a look of love, that claim'd . A smile or an embrace ; But when I raised my lip, to meet
The pressure children prize,
They spoke not in my eyes.
The anguish of neglect;
With gems and roses deck'd;
When wantonly reproved, I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.
But soon a time of triumph came
A time of sorrow too
Her venom'd mantle threw
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,
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 confessid,
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."
ef humae's side. ANON. AURA VENI. BALMy freshness! heavenly air!
Cool, oh! cool this burning browLoose 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 10 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; 'Twas 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.
FATHER, who made all the beautiful flowers,
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.
VERSES INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM.
To meet the eye of lady gay ?
For page like this no fitting lay.