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He spake; and my poor name he named ;
THE COTTAGER'S CHILD.
Oh Poverty ! is this a child of thine
On which I gaze in silent rapture now?
How soft the beauty of that sinless brow Round which the brightest flowing ringlets twine Their silver tendrils ! and how deeply shine
The mirrored depths of those blue liquid eyes,
Whence streams of sweet expression laughing rise To tempt the parent kiss ! This form divine, This half-blown rose beneath thy roof of care, Ere long must yield to every
bitter blast That howls around thy hearth ; she too inust share Thy cup of tears, and, as she sorrows, cast A tattered mantle round her shivering form, To hide her bosom from the mountain storm.
THE POET'S PRAYER.
O could my spirit fly from this dark world of woe,