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My steps to walk in Virtue's way,
My heart to honour and to love
The God that ruleth from above.
He was a man of Sorrows;–Care
Was seated on his hoary hair;
His cheek was colourless; his brow
Was furrowed o'er, as mine is now ;
His earliest youth had fled in tears,
And grief was on his closing years.
But still he met, with soul resigned,
The day of mourning; and his mind,
Reneath its load of woe and pain,
Might deeply feel, but not complain;
And Virtue o'er his forehead's snows
Had thrown an air of meek repose,
More lovely than the hues that streak
The bloom of childhood’s laughing cheek;
It seemed to tell the holy rest
That will not leave the righteous breast,
The trust in One that died to save,
The hope that looks beyond the grave,
The calm of unpretending worth,
The bliss that is not of the earth.
And he would smile; but in his smile
Sadness would seem to lurk the while :
Child as I was, I could not bear
To look upon that placid air;
I felt the tear-drop in mine eye,
And wished to weep, and knew not why.

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? Perhaps, 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 there— I 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 heaven, 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.

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