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For he was thin and pale, drooping and weak,
With a dim hollow eye, and faded cheek :
She shrieked not, though her cheek yet paler

grew, But round his feeble body fondly threw Her clasping arms, and held him to her heart. Alas! but they were doomed again to part : For that stern man stood by, and thence he drove Her in the anguish of her outraged love; Nor would grant more unto her earnest prayer, Than that the boy should have her nightly careet only in his slumber. From that night he watched him in his sleep; with fingers light ressing his little hands, or his tbick hair Parting from his wbite brow with tender care : ,nd every night, within his hand, she placed

bead from off the rosary at her waist. But still the child grew thinner and more pale,

And restless were his slumbers; and quick sighs, As if a wearying pain did him assail,

Fluttered his breath with dreamy agonies; And his pale, drooping mother by him prayed That God would ease his pain, and be his aid.

• The last bead had been given the night before,

And the rich crucifix to her lips was prest One morn, when Maffei oped the chamber door,

And saw the dead child laid upon her breast : She too was dead and Maffei down the stair

Rushed like a maniac; and the menials said, So terrible his gestures and his air,

That he had seen more than the silent dead. From that day forth, like a dim, blasted thing,

He dwelt alone, and darker grew his fate : It seemed as if a horrid curse did cling

Unto him, with a fierce avenging hate

Linking him to life; and year on year passed by,

And he was old and feeble, and was known Whole days to kneel, praying that he might die.

His generation vanished one by one,
And yet he lived-oh, miserable man!

Cursing himself, in his dark tottering age;
Nor could the Pope release him from the ban
Of life, by prayer or weary pilgrimage.
•Such is the history of that haunted room,
Where duly in the silent midnight's gloom,
That mournful lady by the bed is placed
Weeping, with her rich rosary at her waist.'
I slept no more within that place of fear-

And the next day we journeyed on to Rome,
Where we abode a long and mournful year,

And laid my gentle mother in her tomb.


INSPIRER and hearer of prayer,
Thou feeder and guardian of thine,
My all to thy covenant care
I sleeping and waking resign;
If thou art my shield and my sun,
The night is no darkness to me,
And fast as my moments roll on,
They bring me but nearer to thee.
Thy minist'ring spirits descend
To watch while thy saints are asleep,
By day and by night they attend,
The heirs of salvation to keep ;

Bright seraphs dispatch'd from the throne,
Repair to the stations assign'd,
And angels elect are sent down,
To guard the elect of mankind.

Thy worship no interval knows,
Their fervour is still on the wing :
And while they protect my repose,
They chant to the praise of my King :
I too, at the season ordain'd,
Their chorus for ever shall join,
And love, and adore, without end,
Their faithful Creator, and mine.



When musing sorrow weeps the past,

And mourns the present pain, How sweet to think of peace at last,

And feel that death is gain!

'Tis not that murmuring thoughts arise,

And dread a Father's will; "Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still.

It is that heaven-taught faith surveys,

The paths to realms of light;
And longs her eagle plumes to raise,

And lose herself in sight.

It is that hope with ardour glows,

To see him face to face,
Whose dying love no language knows

Sufficient art to trace.
It is that harass'd conscience feels

The pangs of struggling sin;
Sees, though afar, the hand that heals,

And ends her war within.
Oh! let me wing my hallowed flight

I'rom earth-born woe and care;
And soar beyond these realms of night,

My Saviour's bliss to share.



Welcome thou peaceful dawn!

O'er field and wooded lawn
The wonted sound of busy toil is laid.

And hark! the village bell!

Whose simple tinklings swell, Sweet as soft music, on the straw-roof'd shed, And bid the pious cottager prepare To keep the appointed rest, and seek the house of pray'r.

How goodly 'tis to see

The rustic family
Duly along the church-way path repair:

The mother trim and plain

Leading her ruddy train, The father pacing slow with modest air. With honest heart and humble guise they come, To serve Almighty God, and bear his blessing home.

At home they gaily share

Their sweet and simple fare,
And thank the Giver of the festal board;

Around the blazing hearth

They sit in harmless mirth, Or turn with awe the volume of the Lord : Then full of heav'nly joy retiring pay Their sacrifice of pray’r to Him who bless'd the day.

O Sabbath bell, thy voice

Makes hearts like these rejoice ; Not so the child of vanity and pow'r:

He the best pavement treads

Perchance as custom bids, Perchance to gaze away a listless hour; Then crowns the bowl, or scours along the road, Nor hides his shame from men, nor heeds the eye of


When the seventh morning's gleam

Purpled the lonely stream,
On its green bank of old the Christian bow'd;

The hand adoring spread,

And broke the mystic bread;
And leagu'd in bonds of holy concord, vow'd
From the cleans'd heart to wash each foul offence,
And give his days to peace and saintly innocence.

In vain the Roman lord

Way'd the relentless sword,
And spread the terrors of the circling flame;

In vain the heathen sought,

If chance some lurking spot Might mar the lustre of the Christian name; T'h' Eternal Spirit, by his fruits confess’d, In life secur’d from stain, and steel'd in death the breast.

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