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Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,-ah, much too soon!

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all thine own,
Of many a pang, and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know.
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not, may not find a tongue,
But kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest,
May joy still animate thy breast;
Still 'midst thy least propitious days,
Shedding its rich inspiring rays ;
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret pray'r,
And as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.

Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold I
Lamb of the world's extended fold i
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

IRISH MELODY.

MOORE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth ;

Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at, no one dreameth:

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid, that seldom rises,

Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprizes.

Oh, my Nora Creina dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina !

Beauty lies

In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it,

Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where Nature plac'd it.

Oh, my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

Nature's dress

Is loveliness-
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined, But when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us.

Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber love reposes,

Bed of peace, whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh, my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,

Wit, though bright,

Hath not the light
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creioa.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT.

J. MONTGOMERY.

I LOVED thee, daughter of my heart;
My Child, I loved thee dearly;
And though we only met to part,
-How sweetly! how severely!
Nor life nor death can sever
My soul from thine for ever.

Thy days, my little one, were few;
An angel's morning visit,
That came and vanish'd with the dew ;
'Twas here, 'tis gone, where is it?
Yet didst thou leave behind thee
A clew for love to find thee. .

The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow,
The hands stretch'd forth in gladness,
All life, joy, rapture, beauty now;
Then dash'd with infant sadness ;
Till, brightening by transition,
Return'd the fairy vision:-

Where are they now?--those smiles, those tears,
Thy mother's darling treasure ?
She sees them still, and still she hears
Thy tones of pain or pleasure,
To her quick pulse revealing
Unutterable feeling.

Hush'd in a moment on her breast,
Life, at the well-spring drinking ;
Then cradled on her lap to rest,
In rosy slumber sinking,
Thy dreams-no thought can guess them;
And mine-no tongue express them.

For then this waking eye could see,
In many a vain vagary,
The things that never were to be,
Imaginations airy ;
Fond hopes that mothers cherish,
Like still-born babes to perish.

Mine perish'd on thy early bier ;
No, --changed to forms more glorious,
They flourish in a higher sphere,
O'er time and death victorious;

Yet would these arms have chain'd thee, And long from heaven detain'd thee.

Sarah! my last, my youngest love,
The crown of every other !
Though thou art born in heaven above,
I am thine only Mother,
Nor will affection let me
Believe thou canst forget me.

Then,—thou in heaven and I on earth,
May this one hope delight us,
That thou wilt hail my second birth,
When death shall re-unite us,
Where worlds no more can sever
Parent and child for ever.

SPRING.

MARY HOWITT.

The Spring-she is a blessed thing!

She is the mother of the flowers ; She is the mate of birds and bees, The partner of their revelries, Our star of hope through wintry hours.

,

The many children, when they see .

Her coming, by the budding thorn,
They leap upon the cottage floor,
They shout beside the cottage door,

And run to meet her night and morn.

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