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Where long they lived in love, and to the elf
Now fondly clinging to her grandam's knee,
In all the love of quick-won infancy,
I'nint with the triumph of a mother's smile.
Tin' sweet child then will tell her tale
Of her own blossom'd bower, and palmy

vale, And birds with golden plumes, that sweetly

sing Tunes of their own, or borrow'd from her

voice; And, as she speaks, lo! flits with gorgeous

wing Upon her outstretch'd arm. a fearless bird, Her eye obeying, ere the call was heard, And wildly warbles there the music of its


Unto the blessed Matron's eye How chnngcd seem now town, sea, and sky! She feds as if to youth restored, Such fresh and beauteous joy is pnnr'il O'er the green dancing nines, and shelly

sand. The crowded masts within the harbour stand, Emblems of rest: and yon ships far away, Brightening the entrance of the Crescent-bay, Seem things the tempest never can destroy, To longing Rpirits harbingers of joy. How sweet the music o'er the waves is borne, In celebration of this glorious morn! Ring on, ye bells! most pleasant is your

chime; And the quick flash that bursts along the

shore, The i nlmiied smoke, and city-shaking roar, Her happy soul now feels to be sublime. How fair upon the human face appears A kindling smile! how idle all our tears! Short-sighted still the moistcn'd eyes of

sorrow: To-day our woes can never end. Think we!—returns a long-lost friend, And we are blest to-morrow. Her anguish, and her wish to die, Now seem like worst impiety, For many a year she hopeth now to live; And God, who sees the inmost breast. The vain repining of the sore distrest, In mercy will forgive.

How oft, how long, and solemnly, Fitz-Owen and bis Mary gaze On her pale cheek, and sunken eye! Much alter'd since those happy days, When scarcely could themselves behold One symptom faint that she was waxing old. That evening of her life how bright! But now seems falling fast the night. Yet the Welch air will breathe like balm Through all her wasted heart, the heavenly

calm That 'mid her native mountains sleeps for

In the deep vales, — even when the storm*

are roaring High up among the dill's: and that sweet

river That round the white walls of her cottage

flows. With gliding motion most like to repose, A quicker current to her blood restoring. Will cheer her long before her eye-lids close. And yonder cheek of rosy light. Dark-clustering hair, and star-like eyes. And fairy-form, that wing'd with rnpturr

flies, And voice more wild than songstress of tbe

E'er pour'd unto the listening skies;
Yon spirit, who, with her angel-smile.
Shed Heaven around the lonely isle.
With Nature, and with Nature's art,
Will twine herself about the heart
Of her who hoped not for a grand-child'*

These looks will scare disensr and pain,
Till in her wasted heart again
Life grow with new-born bliss.

Far is the city left behind, And faintly-smiling through the soft - blue

skies. Like castled clouds the Cambrian hills arise: Sweet the first welcome of the niountain

wind! And ever nearer as they come. Beneath the hastening shades of silent Evea. Some old familiar object meets their sight. Thrilling their hearts with sorrowful delight. Until through tears they hail their blessed

home, Bathed in the mist, confusing earth with

heaven. With solemn gaze the aged matron sees The green roof laughing beneath greener

trees; And thinks how happy she will live and die Within that cot at last, beneath the eye Of them long wept as perish'd in the seas And what feel they? with dizzy brain they

look On cot, field, mountain, garden, tree, and

brook, With none contented, although loving ail; While deep-delighted memory, By faint degrees, and silently, Doth all their names recall. And looking in her mother's face. With smiles of most bewitching grace. In a wild voice that wondering pleasure* Exclaims the child: Is this home ours? Ah me! how like these lovely flowers To those I train'd upon the bowers Of our own Isle of Palms!

Husht now these island-bower* as death' And ne'er may human foot or breath.

Their dew disturb again; but not more still Stand they, o'er-shadowed by their palmy

hill, Than this deserted cottage! O'er the green. Once smooth before the porch, rank weeds

are seen, Choking the feebler flowers: with blossoms

hoar, And verdant leaves, the unpruncd eglantine In wanton beauty foldcth up the door; And through the clustering roses that entwine The lattice-window, neat and trim before, The aetting sun's slant beams no longer shine. The hive stands on the ivied tree. But murmurs not one single bee; Frail looks the osier-seat, and gray, None hath sat there for many a day; And the dial, hid in weeds and flowers, Hnth told, by none beheld, the solitary hours; No birds that love the haunts of men Hob here, or through the garden sing; From the thick-matted hedge the lonely

wren Flits rapid by on timid wing, Frenlike a leaf by wandering zephyr moved. Bat long it is since that sweet bird, That twitters "neat h the cottage-eaves, Was here by listening morning heard: For she, the summer-songstress, leaves The roof by laughter never stirr'd, Still loving human life and by it still beloved.

0! wildest cottage of the wild! I <ee thee waking from thy breathless sleep! Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep, Hith o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled. More beauteous art thou than of yore, n ith joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom; And they who in that paradise abide. By sadness and misfortune beautified, There brighter walk than o'er yon islandshore, A* loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb. ">«g mayst thou stand in sun and dew, And spring thy faded flowers renew, fchann'd by frost or blight! without, the wonder of each eye, Within, as happy as the sky,

Encompass'd with delight.

—May thy old-age he calm and bright,

Thou gray-hair'd one! — like some sweet

night Of winter, cold, but clear, and shining far Through mists with many a melancholy star. —O Fairy-child! what can I wish for thee? Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be, That spends its life in beauty and in bliss! Soft on thee fall the breath of time,' And still retain in heavenly clime The bloom that charm'd in this!

O, happy Parents of so sweet a child, Your share of grief already have you known; But long as that fair spirit is your own, To cither lot you must be reconciled. Dear was she in yon palmy grove, When fear and sorrow mingled with your

love, And oft you w'sh'd that she had ne'er been

born; While, in the most delightful air Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice, That seem'd to make even lifeless things

rejoice, Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair, As if it breathed: For me, an Orphan, mourn! Now can they listen when she sings With mournful voice of mournful things, Almost too sad to hear; And when she chants her evening-hymn, Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim With many a gushing tear. Each day she seems to them more bright And beautiful,—a gleam of light That plays and dances o'er the shadowy

earth! It fadeth not in gloom or storm,—For Nature charter'd that aerial form In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her

birth! The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower

again, Darkening with solemn shnde the face of

heaven. Now far away they like the clouds arc driven. And as the passing night-wind dies my strain!

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