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The pilgrim who reaches the valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and
fears, He is launched on the wreck-cover'd river.
SECOND VOICE. The traveller, outworn with life's pilgrimage
dreary, Lays down his rude staff like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever!
THE DECEASED INFANT.
Charlotte Glizabeth. BEAUTIFUL baby! art thou sleeping
Ne'er to unclose that beaming eye? Deaf to the voice of a mother's weeping,
All unmoved by a father's sigh? Mother! loved mother! I am not sleeping;
Father! look up to the soft blue sky, Where the glittering stars their watch are
keeping, Singing and shining there am I. • Warm was the tender breast that bore me,
'Twas sweet my mother to rest with thee; But I was chosen, thou must restore me
To the Saviour's bosom-He bled for me.
*I lingered below 'till almost discerning
My father's voice, and my mother's smile ; Love's infant lesson my heart was learning,
But my spirit was called to heaven the while. • My brothers ! my heart would soon have
grown fonder, When gazing on each young smiling face, But I go to those others who, sparkling yonder,
Waited for me in that beauteous place. Oh! many a lonely hour of weeping
Thou hast passed by their forsaken bed; But, mother, look up, they are not sleeping
They linger not with the silent dead.
• Could I shew thee my brother and sister's
dwelling, Could I sing thee the songs they are singing
here, Could I tell thee the tales that we are telling,
Oh, where, my mother, will be thy tear? For we on glorious wings are sailing,
Where rainbow tents surround the throneAnd while bright seraphs their eyes are veiling
We see the face of the Holy One. And we, when heaven's high arch rejoices,
With thundering notes of raptured praise, We, thine own babes, with loud sweet voices,
The frequent hallelujah raise.
• And we, oh, we! are closely pressing,
Where stands the Lamb for sinners slain; Hark! glory, honor, power, and blessing!
Away! we are called to swell the strain. • Mother! loved mother, we are not sleeping;
Father, look up, where the bright stars be; Where all the planets their watch are keeping,
Singing and shining there are we.'
TO THE IVY.
In ancient days the God of wine,
Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman on the battle plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Around the victor's tent.
Triumphantly thy boughs may wave,
Around the victor's grave:
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past, Where through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast. Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair, Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb, art there. Thou o'er the shrine of fallen gods
On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes,
And cities of the dead. Deserted palaces of kings,
Arches of triumph long o'erthrown,
At length are thine alone.
Beneath the blue Italian sky,
Save thy wild tapestry. And reared midst clouds and crags 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of
yore, On mould'ring towers by lovely Rhine,
Cresting the rocky shore.
Those eyries of a banished race,
But thou art there, thy foliage bright,
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave, Thou that will climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.
That rise round grandeur's marble halls, The vivid hues of painting thrown
Rich o'er the flowing walls; The acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptured beauty waving fairThese perish all, and what remains,
Thou, thou alone, art there, 'Tis still the same, where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,
Left to decay, and thee.
August in beauty, grace, and strength; Days pass, thou ivy never sear,
And all is thine at length.
1011. Gifts are the beads of memory's rosary, Whereon she reckons kind remembrances Of friends, and old affections !