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And sweet from the cot are the sounds of delight,
Which float on the breezes from infantile voices; While the eye of the parent rests pleas'd on the sight,
Till every fond passion within him rejoices. Then, O, how entrancing the church-going bells, Which seem from each earthly engagement to
sever; And solemn to me is the curfew, which tells
That time is departing-departing for ever! How oft have I paus'd in the stillness of eve, To read the lone tombs where our ancestors
slumber; And pray'd for composure when I shall receive
My summons, to add to their desolate number. Sweet scenes of endearment, fond joys of my youth!
When life is declining, and all things depart, I still may rejoice in this innocent truth, That pleasures so simple were dear to my heart !
Rev. A. Reed.
THE BLIND BOY.
WHERE's the blind child, so admirably fair, With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair That waves in every
breeze? He's often seen Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, With others, match'd in spirit and in size, Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes. That full expanse of voice, to cħildhood dear, Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here; And, hark! that laugh is his—that jovial cry; He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might,
With circumscrib'd, but not abated powers-
His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
THROUGH many a land and clime a ranger,
With toilsome steps I've held my way, A lonely unprotected stranger,
To all the stranger's ills a prey.
While steering thus, my course precarious,
My fortune still has been to find Men's hearts and dispositions various,
But gentle Woman ever kind. Alive to every tender feeling,
To deeds of mercy always prone; The wounds of pain and sorrow healing,
With soft compassion's sweetest tone. No proud delay, no dark suspicion,
Stints the free bounty of their hearts; They turn not from the sad petition,
But cheerful aid at once impart. Form'd in benevolence of nature,
Obliging, modest, gay and mild; Woman's the same endearing creature
In courtly town and savage wild. When parch'd with thirst, with hunger wasted,
Her friendly hand refreshment gave;
What cordial in the simple wave!
Shed comfort on the fainting soul;
From sultry India to the Pole. Dr. Aikin,
ON MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With mę bụt roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails; else how.distinct they say,
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave
a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers— -Yes ! I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept å last adieu ! But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish’d, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv’d.
By expectation every day beguild,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call’d the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac’d A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd : All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall; Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interpos’d to often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to
latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little notic'd here.