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Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,

That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish child,
That exquisite Saint John.

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, The smooth transparent skin, Refined, as with intent to show

The holiness within;

The grace of parting infancy

By blushes yet untamed;
Age faithful to the mother's knee,
Nor of her arms ashamed.

Two lovely sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat
The Christian of his pride;

Such beauty hath the Eternal poured

Upon them, not forlorn,

Though of a lineage once abhorred,

Nor yet redeemed from scorn.

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Of poverty and wrong,

Doth here preserve a living light, From Hebrew fountains sprung; That gives this ragged group to cast Around the dell a gleam

Of Palestine, of glory past,

And proud Jerusalem!

PRIMITIÆ.

TO I. D. C

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

SWEET child, I write, because I wish to see
In thy unspotted book, my jogged hand,
The rudest sketch and primal prophecy-

Of what thy wit may win, or sense command.
Some men would tell thee that thy soul was yet
An album, open for all men to write in-
I deem not so for thou canst not forget

What now thou art, and what I most delight in.
Ere thou wert born "into this breathing world,"
God wrote some characters upon thy heart;
Oh let them not, like beads of dew impearled
On morning blades, before the noon depart!-
But morning drops before the noon exhale,
And yet those drops appear again at even,
So childish innocence on earth must fail-
Yet may return to usher thee to Heaven.

Rothay Bank.

SONNET.

TO L. C

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

I WOULD not take my leave of thee, dear child,
With customary words of compliment;

Nor will I task my fancy to invent

A fond conceit, or sentence finely filed— Nor shall my heart with passionate speech and wild Bewail thy parting in a drear lament: Wit is not meet for one so innocent, Nor passionate woe for one so gaily mild. I will not bid thee think of me-nor yet Would I in thy young memory perish quite.

I am a waning star, and nigh to set;

Thou art a morning beam of waxing light; But sure the morning star can ne'er regret

That once 't was grey-haired evening's favourite.

Grasmere.

A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A

STAR.

N. P. WILLIS.

SHE had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven; and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted, with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple fold
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,

Filled her young heart with gladness; and the

eve

Stole on with its deep shadows. Laura still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.

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