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"There was a blight upon that race

They one by one did fall;

Sorrow and sin had stricken them,
And death consumed them all.

"There was but one of all her house
Whom folly did not win;
An angel in a woman's form-
Thy mother, Magdalene !

"And when, upon her bed of death,
All in her youth she lay-
An angel, to her native skies
Ready to pass away;

"Ready to pass away to God,
Save for one mortal tie-
Thyself, my precious Magdalene,
That in her arms did lie.

"Take, take, my friend, this little child,' Said she, when I am dead;

And, as thou know'st I should declare,
Let her be nurtured.

"Thou know'st the follies of this house, Thou know'st its sin,' quoth she,

'And from such folly and such sin

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"She died !-the place was desolate-Her kindred all were gone

There was but I, her ghostly friend,
And thou, her orphaned one!

"Their thriftless lives had made thee poor,

Their shame thy name had spentSorely run out were all thy lands, And mortgaged all thy rent.

"I trained thee in this sober wise,
And in this solitude,

That thou might'st grow up innocent,
Thoughtful, and wise, and good.

"Thy manors now lay far and wide,
Thy noble lands are free;

And old and young, my Magdalene,
Are looking up to thee.

"Ere long, thou wilt have friends enow,
And so Heaven give thee grace,
The sounds of joy may ring again
From this deserted place.

"It has been stripped and desolate,
Its want laid open wide;
But the innocence of a little child
The place hath purified!

"Be patient yet, my Magdalene;

Please God, the time shall be,

When blameless mirth and merry friends
Shall here abide with thee !"

WOMAN AND FAME.

MRS. HEMANS.

Happy-happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow;
She that makes the humblest hearth,
Lovely but to one on earth.

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me-a woman-bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine Into so proud a wreath;

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death.

Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat,

As when a trumpet's note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet:

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast, By words of home-born love be bless'd.

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thine eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy;

For kindly looks to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain, in the day

Of the soul's feverish need;

Where must the lone one turn or flee?-
Not unto thee, oh! not to thee!

LITTLE FLORA'S SONG.

T. K. HERVEY.

WILL you not buy my flowers?

I have been on the primrose hill; I have been where the lily builds silver bowers, On the edge of the singing rill.

I have followed the bee where the sallow grows By the amaranth dim and pale;

And I tracked the butterfly's wing to the rose, In her palace of the vale!

Choose what you love the best!

All culled in the cool fresh morn,

For I wakened the lark from the tulip's breast, In the depths of the waving corn!

A rainbow might have dyed this wreath

It has every scent and hue

That is born of the west wind's wooing breath, Or waked by the early dew.

Fragrant and sweet and fair!

Yet, they neither toil nor spin;

But they have not known the touch of care
Nor the taint of mortal sin!
Beside their beauty pure and lone
The glow of earthly fame,

Or the pomp and pride of Solomon,
Is a vain and empty name!

Is not my calling sweet?

To dwell amid beautiful things!
Flowers giving perfume at my feet,

And birds-like flowers with wings!
Oh! happy they who shun the strife
Of pride or passion's hours,
And glide along the calms of life
Like me, dispensing flowers.

WE MET WHEN LIFE AND HOPE

WERE NEW.

A. A. WATTS.

WE met when life and hope were new,
When all we looked on smiled;
And Fancy's wand around us threw
Enchantments-sweet as wild!

Ours were the light and bounding hearts,
The world had yet to wring;

The bloom, that when it once departs,
Can know no second spring.

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