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Flee little tender nursling;

Flee to thy place of rest! There the first power shall blow, The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! the little bosom,

Labours with shortening breathPeace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh

These are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,

A thing all health and glee!
But never then wert thou,
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me.

Mount up, immortal essence !

Young spirit! haste, departAnd is this death?-dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art.

Thine upturned eyes glaz'd over,

Like harebells wet with dew,
Already veild and hid
By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,

The soft lip quivering
As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose-leaves) there

Thy soul were fluttering.

Oh! I could gaze for ever

Upon that waxen face : So passionless, so pure ! The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling-place,

Thou weepest, childless mother!

Aye weep-'will ease thine heart He was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one,

'Tis hard from him to part!

'Tis hard to lay thy darling

Deep in the damp cold earth-
His empty crib, to see,
His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber

His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then waken'd with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,

His twining arms to miss.

To feel, half conscious why,

A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole,

That thou art desolate.

And then to lie and weep,

And think the live-long night, (Feeling thine own distress With accurate greediness)

Of every past delight.

Of all his winning ways,

His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry,

And all his little wiles !

Ob! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling-
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,

With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!

In after years look back (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing,

E’en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, ' My first born blessing!

It almost broke my heart When thou wert forced to go; And yet, for thee, I know,

"Twas better to depart.

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• Now, when the hour arrives

From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await,
The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me.'


[MISS ROSCOE.) The father sat and watch'd his boy,

With all a father's woe; Fled was the rosy light of joy, And faded his


brow; Dark shades were gathering o'er its grace, And death was stamp'd on that sweet face. And yet he linger'd still-at fits,

A brief reviving beam, In melancholy beauty, flits

Across his cheek ;- that gleam
Deceives the father's throbbing heart,
To think perchance they may not part.
What soothes the little sufferer now?

Ab! music pours its strain,-
With smiles his dying features glow,

The child forgets his pain !
And his small feeble hand with care
Beats time to his own favourite air.
It play'd—that simple careless tune,

While numbers pass'd it by ;
But ever, as those notes begun,

His pale cheek flushed with joy; And his bright eye his father's sought With all its childish pleasure fraught.

The organ past—and all forgot

The music fled away ;
But the young sufferer knew the spot,

And the accustomed day;
And ever, as it took its round,
His heart was sooth'd with that sweet sound.

But ah! glad strains, and tender cares,

From death may never save ;
Soon torn from all sweet sounds he sbares

The silence of the grave;
And, with a cold and breaking heart,
The father sees his child depart.
He takes him to his tomb--and then,

All steep'd in speechless woe;
Returns unto his home again,

But not one tear will flow :
The lonely room—the vacant seat,
His eyes in silent stupor meet.
What stirs him from his deep despair?

What wakens all his heart?
It plays again—that simple air-

And tears like rain-drops start:
In every note-in every tone,
He feels his child again his own.
And thoughts of tenderness and love

Creep softly o'er his grief,
And draw his spirit far above

A world so sad and brief:
The airs of heaven are in his ear-
His child in angel-light is near!

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