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0! I should think, that fragrant bed

Might I but hope with you to share, Years of anxiety repaid

By one short hour of transport there!
More blest than me, thus shall ye live

Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give

A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

While I, alas ! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name.

GIFFORD.

WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE

PRECEDING.
I wish I was where Anna lies,

For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour, affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could ! for when she died,

I lost my all ; and life has proved, Since that sad hour, a dreary void,

A waste unlovely, and unloved.

But who, when I am turn'd to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have “no business there ?"

And who with pious hand shall bring

The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded sp

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?

And who, while memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow

Should visit still, should still deplore,
But health and strength have left me now,

And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid ! this simple strain,

The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye ;

Thy spirits, frolicksome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good humour-can they fade ?

GIFFORD.

THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.
I DREAM'D I saw a little rosy child,
With flaxen ringlets in a garden playing ;

Now stopping here, and then afar off straying,
As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled.

Twas changed. One summer's day I stepp'd aside, To let him pass; his face had manhood's seeming, And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming

On a fair maiden whom he call'd his Bride !"

Once more ; 'twas autumn, and the cheerful fire

I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding,

The room with harmless pleasantry resounding, And in the midst I mark'd the smiling Sire.

The heavens were clouded and I heard the tone Of a slow moving bell—the white-haired man

was gone!

ANON.

THE BUTTERFLY'S BIRTHDAY.
The shades of night at distance fled,

The air was calm, the wind was still ;
And slow the slanting sun-beam spread

O'er wood and lawn, o'er heath and hill.
From floating clouds of pearly hue,

Fell, in light drops, the recent shower,
That hung like gems of morning dew,

On every tree, and every flower.
And from the Blackbird's mellow throat

Was pour'd so long and loud a swell,
As echoed with responsive note

From mountain side, and shadowy dell.
When bursting forth to life and light,

The offspring of delighted May,
The Butterfly, on pinions bright,

Launch'd in full splendour on the day!
Unconscious of a mother's care,

No infant wretchedness she knew;
But as she felt the vernal air,

At once to full perfection grew.
Her slender form, ethereal light,

Her velvet-textured wings enfold,
With all the rainbow's colours bright,

And dropt with spots of burnish'd gold.

Trembling with joy, awhile she stood,

And felt the sun's enlivening ray, Drank from the breeze the vital flood,

And wonder'd at her plumage gay. And balanced oft her broider'd wings,

Through fields of air prepared to sail ; Then on her venturous journey springs,

And floats along the vernal gale.

Go! child of pleasure, range the fields,

Share all the joys that Spring can give ; Partake what bounteous Summer yields,

And live while yet 'tis time to live. Go, sip the rose's fragrant dew,

The lily's honey'd cup explore ; From flower to flower, the search renew,

And rifle all the woodbine's store.

And let me trace thy vagrant flight,

Thy moments, too, of short repose; And mark thee then, with fresh delight,

Thy golden pinions ope and close.

But hark! while thus I musing stand,

Swells on the gale an airy note, And, breathing from a viewless band,

Soft, silvery tones around me float.

They cease ; but still a voice I hear,

A whisper'd voice of hope and joy ; “Thy fated hour approaches near,

Prepare thee, Mortal ! thou must die!

Yet start not-on thy closing eyes,

Another day shall still unfold, A sun of brighter radiance rise,

A happier age of joys untold.

Shall the poor worm, that shocks thy sight,

The humblest form in Nature's train,
Thus rise again to life and light,

And yet the emblem teach in vain ?
Ah, where were once her golden eyes,

Her beauteous wings of purple pride ?
Concealed beneath a rude disguise,

A shapeless man, to earth allied.

Like thee this happy reptile lived,

Like thee he toil'd, like thee he spun;
Like thine his closing hour arrived,

His labour ceased, his web was done.
And shalt thou, number'd with the dead,

No happier state of being know?
And shall no future morrow shed

On thee a beam of brighter glow?
Is this the bound of power divine,

To animate an insect frame ?
Or may not he who moulded thine

Relume-at will the vital flame ?
Go, Mortal! in thy reptile state,

Enough to know to thee is given ;
Go, and the joyful truth relate,
Frail child of earth, high heir to heaven!"

Roscoe

POOR SUSAN

At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears, There's a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years, Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

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