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MORNING.

ROBERT ROSE. FROM THE CHAPLET,

1841.

WEEPING in dew-drops for the sun's delay,
Mark yon fair flower reclining in the shade;
But morn's waked eye-lids fling a lustre gay
O'er its coy beauty, type of modest maid.
Aurora trippeth o'er the velvet lawn,

To nature's God ascends the matin lay,
O'er verdant pastures speeds the playful fawn,
And gladly hails the mantling blush of day;
Man is as joyous in hope's happy hour,

Ere furrow'd is his brow by care or age;
His opening lot like yon fresh budding flower,
His fancies pictured on life's golden page :
Lo! now the day-king moun's in glory bright,
Ánd all things waking spring to life and light.

It is worthy of remark, that Robert Rose was the first, and for some time the only person, who bought a copy of "Festus," when that wonderful poem was published in Manchester. The printer of the book was a curious character, and when informed of the tardy sale, he sought out the purchaser, and congratulated him on his superior and singular taste.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

REV. WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY, BORN AT EXETER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, IN 1799.

AND this is death? how cold and still,

And yet how lovely it appears; Too cold to let the gazer smile,

But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;

And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,

That never look'd so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there,

I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast.

And that strong passion once rebel

That need not, cannot be suppress d.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,

In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn : The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies; And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? That deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose;
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod;
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far,
The clouds of death and sorrow fly,
I see thee, like a new-born star,

Move up thy pathway in the sky :
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,

And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;

Thrice happy, that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet.
But no; that look is not the last;

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-farewell!

THE PILGRIM CHILD,

ANONYMOUS.

A STRANGER child, one winter eve,

Knock'd at a cottage maiden's door;

"A pilgrim at your hearth receive

Hark! how the mountain-torrents roar !"
But ere the latch was raised, "Forbear!"
Cried the pale parent from above;
"The Pilgrim child that's weeping there,
Is Love!"

The Spring tide came, and once again,

With garlands crown'd, a laughing child Knock'd at the maiden's casement pane,

And whisper'd "Let me in," and smiled. The casement soon was open'd wide

The stars shone bright the bower above; And lo! the maiden's couch beside

Stood Love!

And smiles, and sighs, and kisses sweet,
Beguiled brief Summer's careless hours;
And Autumn, Labour's sons to greet,

Came forth with corn, and fruit, and flowers.
But why grew pale her cheek with grief?
Why watch'd she the bright stars above?
Some one had stolen her heart-the thief
Was Love!

And Winter came, and hopes and fears
Alternate swell'd her virgin breast;

But none were there to dry her tears,
Or hush her anxious cares to rest.
And often as she ope'd the door,
Roar'd the wild torrent from above;
But never to her cottage more

Came Love!

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