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As friend with friend, and man with man,
IV.-THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.
(ALARIC A. WATTS.) Alaric A. Watts was born in London in 1799. He has been long connected with
the newspaper press, and for some time edited the “United Service Gazette."
My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes, When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble
cries; For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to
kiss Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss ! I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and
pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding
brain; I thought of friends, grown worse than cold—of persecuting
foes, And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's
repose ! I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears, Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my
Sweet rays of hope, that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of
gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies
are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more! And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at
thy birth, They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief
thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to
fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes
were wrapped in shade.
Oh, the child in its hours of health and bloom that is dear
as thou wert then, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and
in pain; And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope
was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst
Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee, day by
day, Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe
aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's
coming cloud !
It came at length: o'er thy bright blue eye the film was
gathering fast, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow—the deepest and
the last; In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping
head : A moment more, the final pang—and thou wert of the dead !
Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me, And murmured low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attained
by thee; She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as
thine, Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant
brow Culled one soft lock of radiant hair,-our only solace now; Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers not more
fair and sweetTwin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.
Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow, They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst : They may be lovely and beloved, but not, like thee, the
The FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet
word can bring, Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's
delightful springOf fervid feelings passed away—those early seeds of bliss That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this !
My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my First ! When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is
like to burst; But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing
radiance dart, And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn
to what thou art!
Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of
earth, With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many
thirst, And bliss, eternal bliss, is thine, my fairest and my First !
SECTION III.-SACRED AND MORAL.
1.—THE EXISTENCE OF A GOD.
(YOUNG.) Dr. Edward Young, author of the “Night Thoughts," was born in Hampshire in
1681, and died in 1765, at his rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire.
RETIRE ;—the world shut out;-thy thoughts call home ;-
What am I \ and from whence ? I nothing know,
And nothing greater, yet allowed, than man.-
II.--ODE OF THANKSGIVING.
(ADDISON.) Dangers escaped during a storm in the Mediterranean called forth this
How are thy servants blest, O Lord !
How sure is their defence !
Their help, Omnipotence.
In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweetened every soil,