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LOETRY.

LINES
Written after witnessing the death of an endeared young friend.

BY REV. HUGH HUTTON.
There played a smile on the pale, young face,

Where the hand of death was stealing;
And her bright eye gazed on vacant space,

As if heaven were its bliss revealing.

And I heard her tongue speak an angel's name,

To welcome his peaceful greeting;
While her cheek was flushed with joys high flame,

But the pulse more faintly was beating.

I beheld that loved one sink to rest,

Like a wearied seraph sleeping ;-
And hers is the sleep of the pure and blest,

Whence she'll wake without pain or weeping.

I look'd on the mourning friends around

Their tears were not those of anguish;
But their voices whisper'd a grateful sound,

When they saw her no longer languish.
And I listened to hear a parent's tongue,

Speak words of pious trusting;
O’er the grave of a child, so pure, so young,

Faith beamed, though the heart was bursting.

Oh, yes! there's a world more sure more bright,

Than this valley of pain and sorrow,
Where again we shall meet in eternal light

When we wake on the glorious morrow.

THOU HAST GONE FROM ME, MY SISTER.

“Thou hast gone from me" my sister,

Thy voice no more I hear,
Thou hast left our kindred circle,

A brighter home to cheer.
Still as I wander silently,

Beside our lone blue stream,
Thy form seems present with me,

In fancy's pleasing dream.

And memory brings the happy hours,

We passed in days long gone,
When life was bright with opening flowers

Without one wounding thorn.
But ah, the thornless flowers soon fade

Their leaves are round me strown,
Thy footsteps too, far off have strayed

And I am left alone.
Whose smile shall now light up the gloom,

That must gather round my brow,
Should pale disease with withering hand,

Her venomed arrow throw.
Though many friends are round me,

Who love my joys to share,
And mingle smiles of pleasantry,

With spirits light as air-
Yet still my heart is lonely,

When adverse storms arise,
For such bright smiles are only

Like stars in cloudless skies.
But thine the clouds dispersing,

Shine brighter ʼmid the gloom,
While of high hopes conversing

And scenes beyond the tomb.
These blissful hopes still cheer me

And still I hear thee say,
Press onward, soon I'll meet thee

Freed from this suffering clay.-
Where thornless flowers for ever bloom

And sorrows flee away,
Where parting hours can never come,
Through heaven's unending day.

HANNAH. New Jersey, Oct. 1, 1830.

UNCLOUDED HOURS. Lines addressed to a friend who envied the author's perpetual

high spirits.
Oh do not suppose that my hours

Are always unclouded and gay;
Or that thorns never mix with the flowers

That fortune has strewed in my way,
When seen by the cold and unfeeling

We smile through the sorrows we feel;
But smiles are deceitful-concealing

The wounds which they never can heal.

Our moments of mirth may be many,

And hope half our sorrows beguile,
But, believe me, there cannot be any

Whose features wear ever a smile.
The heart may be sad and repining,

Though cheerfulness brightens the scene,
As a goblet with gems may be shining

Though bitter the potion within.
A glittering volume may cover

A story of sorrow and wo;
And night's gayest meteors may hover,

Where dangers lie lurking below;
Thus oft in the sunshine of gladness

The cheek and the eye may be drest,
Whilst the clouds of dejection and sadness

In secret o'ershadow the breast.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

“Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? Oh! none :

H. K. White.

No, Henry, no! thy name shall live,
While nature to her sons doth give
A spark of that pure burning flame
That gained to thee a poet's name,
Or sympathy hath one warm tear,
To shed on dying Genius' bier.

Shall worth like thine neglected lie,
And Fame her greenest bay deny ?
Shall Science never stoop to see
Her brighest hopes o'erthrown in thee ?
And Virtue's incense cease to burn,
Extinguish'd on her Henry's urn?
No! bard immortal! Henry's name
Hath gained an everlasting fame;
And Learning's loveliest laurels now,
Are wreathing on thy faded brow;
And long, above thy early tomb,
Shall flowers of sweetest fragrance bloom.

With tears of truest sorrow yet,
Thy hallowed memory is wet;
And time's full years may roll away,
And life renew an endless day,
Ere virtue cease to love thy name,
Or Learning to repeat thy fame.

Yes, on eternity's bright shore,
Where earth shall hinder thee no more,
Thou, sainted bard, shall strike the lyre,
Enkindling with angelic fire,
While kindred seraphs list the song
Poured on celestial plains along.

Why should the envious angel death,
Blast with his chill and withering breath
Such hopes as were by thee inspired,
When with immortal genius fired,
Thy mighty mind grasped science deep,
And touched the harp with plaintive sweep!

Was there no spot for thee to toil,
And pour compassion's healing oil,
And cheer with bland religion's smile,
The broken spirit's woes awhile ?
No dwelling for thee here, that Heaven
Should claim the boon so lately given ?

A mind so pure, so great as thine,
Was fit in holier clirnes to shine ;

Thy home was in a purer sphere;
We drop not one repining tear;
But joy that thou hast left the pains
That bought for us, thy dear “Remains."

THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.

How sweet, in the musings of faith, to repair

To the garden where Mary delighted to rove; To sit by the tomb, where she breath'd her fond prayer,

And paid the sad tribute of sorrow and love; To see the bright beam which disperses her fear,

As the Lord of her soul, breaks the bars of his prison, And the voice of the angel salutes her glad ear

The Lord is a captive no more: “He is risen !"

0! Saviour, as oft as our footsteps we bend

In penitent sadness to weep at thy grave,
On the wings of thy greatness in pity descend,

Be ready to comfort, “be mighty to save.”
We shrink not from scenes of desertion and wo,

If there we may meet with the Lord of our love; Contented with Mary to sorrow below,

If, with her, we may drink of thy fountains above

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