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He had one daughter.—Many years Have fleeted o’er me, since my tears Fell on that form of quiet grace, That humble brow, and beauteous face. She parted from this world of ill When I was yet a child : but still, Until my heart shall cease to beat, That countenance so mildly sweet, That kind blue eye, and golden hair, Eternally are graven there. I see her still, as when she stood In the ripe bloom of womanhood; Yet deigning, where I led, to stray, And mingle in my childhood's play; Or sought my Father's dwelling-place, And clasped me in her fond embrace; A friend—when I had none beside; A mother—when my mother died.

Poor Ellen ! she is now forgot Upon the hearths of this dear spot ; And they, to whom her bounty came, They, who would dwell upon her name With raptured voice, as if they found Hope, comfort, riches, in the sound, Have ceased to think how Ellen fled :Why should they sorrow for the dead ? Perbaps, around the festive board, Some aged chroniclers record

Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
And then a sudden, silent gloom
Creeps on the lips that smiled before,
And jest is still, and mirth is o'er.
She was so beauteous in her dress
Of unaffected loveliness,
So bright, and so beneficent,
That you might deem some fairy sent
To hush the helpless orphan's fears,
And dry the widow's gushing tears.
She moved in beauty, like the star
That shed its lustre from afar,
To tell the wisest on the earth
The tidings of a Saviour's birth;
So pure, so cheering was her ray-
So quickly did it die away.

There came a dark, infectious Pest,
To break the hamlet's tranquil rest ;
It came--it breathed on Ellen's face;
And so she went to Death’s embrace,
A blooming and a sinless bride,
And how, I knew not—but she died.

I was the inmate of her home, And knew not why she did not come To cheer my melancholy mood; Her father wept in solitude; The servants wore a look of woe, Their steps were soft, their whispers low; And when I asked them why they sighed, They shook their heads, and turned aside.

I entered that forbidden room !
All things were still! a deathlike gloom
Stole on me, as I saw her lie
In her white vest of purity.
She seemed to smile! her lips were wet,
The bloom was on her features yet:
I looked ! at first I thought she slept-

But when her accents did not bless-
And when her arms did not caress-
And when I marked her quiet air,

And saw that soul was wanting thereI sat me on the ground, and wept !


“Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still, too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here!"--Shakspeare.

The sun hath shed a mellower beam, Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream, And air and water, earth and beaven, Lie in the calm repose of even. How silently the breeze moves on, Flutters, and whispers, and is gone! How calmly does the quiet sky Sleep in its cold serenity! Alas! how sweet a scene were here For shepherd or for sonneteer; How fit the place, how fit the time, For making love, or making rhyme! But though the sun's descending ray Smiles warmly on the close of day, 'Tis not to gaze upon his light That Eton's sons are here to-night; And though the river, calm and clear, Makes music to the poet's ear, 'Tis not to listen to the sound That Eton's sons are thronging round.

The sun unheeded may decline,
Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan,
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For, in our calendar of bliss,
We have no hour so gay as this,
When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the captive's thrall,,
And smile upon his festival.

Stay, Pegasus,—and let me ask,
Ere I go onward in my task,
Pray, reader,—were you ever here
Just at this season of the year ?
No?—then the end of next July
Should bring you with admiring eye,
To hear us row, and see us row,
And cry—“How fast them boys does go!"
For Father Thames beholds to-night
A thousand visions of delight;
Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering,
Lame steeds to right and left careering,
Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses,
Ruffling of temper, and of dresses;
Wounds on the heart, and on the knuckles;
Losing of patience, and of buckles.
An interdict is laid on Latin,
And scholars smirke in silk and satin ;.

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