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Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
For a day is coming to quell the tone
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 'Midst the hidden things of each human heart!
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?
THE NEGLECTED CHILD.
I NEVER was a favourite,
And yet I strove to please, with all
How blessed are the beautiful!
I learn'd to know thy worth,-
And wish'd-for others wish'd it tooI never had been born!
I'm sure I was affectionate,-
But when I raised my lip, to meet
But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
With gems and roses deck'd;
But soon a time of triumph came-
For sickness o'er my sister's form
The features once so beautiful,
"Twas then unwearied, day and night,
T. H. BAILY.
A POET'S FAVOURITE. Oн 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."
BALMY freshness! heavenly air!
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; '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 vainSo 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,
The emerald leaves and the blossomings-
Father, whose hand form'd the blue-tinted sky,
What are those stars we view shining in air?
Father, from whence came our own lovely land,
From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth,
To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth;
The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky.
VERSES INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM.
WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers,
I have no voice for lady's bowers-