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To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing

light is given ; And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that

tbou,A messenger of peace and love,-art sent to cheer me

now.

What though my heart be crowded close with inmates

dear though few, Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a piche

for you! And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a

place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as

fair a face!

I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes too long

represt! For weak as that low wail may seem to other ears

than mine, It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for

thee and thine!

It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the

birth Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth; And, strengthening many a bright resolve, it bids me

do and dare All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy so

journ fair!

I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may

fling O'er all the promise of thy youth-the visions of thy

spring ;For I would not warp thy gentle heart-each kindlier

impulse ban, By teaching thee—what I have learned-how base a

thing is man!

I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh

is heir; But I can arm thee with a spell life's keepest ills to

bear. I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee

pray For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take

away!

From altered friendship's chilling glance~from hate's

envenomed dart ; Misplaced affection's withering pang- or "true love's"

wonted smart, I cannot shield my sin less child ; but I can bid him

seek Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave

earth's malice weak.

But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest

bird his care, And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill

could bear,

Will still His 'guiding arm extend, his glorious plan

pursue, And, if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee

courage too!

Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the

last! 'Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long,

long years have past; To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and

others leave my side, Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing,

and my pride.

And when the world has done its worst-when life's

fever fit is o'er, And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never

touch it more ; How sweet to think thou may'st be near, to catch my

latest sigh, To bend beside my dying bed, and close my glazing

eye.

Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is

given, The mother's joy-the father's pride, the fairest boon

of Heaven; Their fireside plaything first, and then, of their failing

strength the rock ; The rainbow to their waning years—the Youngling of

their Flock !

SONG.

L. E. LANDON.

I PRAY thee let me weep to-night,

'Tis rarely I am weeping ; My tears are buried in my heart,

Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping.

But oh, to-night, those words of thine

Have brought the past before me ; And shadows of long-vanish'd years

Are passing sadly o'er me.

The friends I loved in early youth,

The faithless and forgetting, Whom, though they were not worth my love,

I cannot help regretting ;

My feelings, once the kind, the warm,

But now the hard, the frozen ; The errors I've too long pursued,

The path I should have chosen ;

The hopes that are like falling iights.

Around my pathway dying ;
The consciousness none others rise,

Their vacant place supplying ;

The knowledge by experience'taught,

The useless, the repelling;

For what avails to know how false

Is all the charmer's telling ?

I would give worlds, could I believe

One half that is profess'd me; Affection ! could I think it Thee,

When flattery has caress'd me?

I cannot bear to think of this,

Oh, leave me to my weeping;
A few tears for that grave, my heart,

Where hope in death is sleeping.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG.

MRS. HEMANS.

MOURNFULLY, sing mo

mournfully, Aud die away, my heart

the glorious rose is gone, And I too will depart.

The rose,

The skies have lost their splendour,

The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world,

Should music linger on ?

Where is the golden sunshine,

And where the flower-cup's glow,
And where the joy of the dancing leaves,

And the fountain's laughing flow?

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