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III.

How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth; Oh beauty! in my nursery

I learned to know thy worth ;For even there, I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn; And wished for others wished it too-.

I never had been born!

IV.
I'm sure I was affectionate,

But in my sister's face,
There was a look of love that claimed

A smile or an embrace.
But when I raised my lip, to meet

The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart, -

They spoke not in my eyes.

v.
But oh! that heart too keenly felt

The anguish of neglect ;
I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses decked;
I did not covet them; but oft,

When wantonly reproved, I envied her the privilege

Of being so beloved.

VI.
But soon a time of triumph came-

A time of sorrow too,-
For sickness, o'er my sister's form

Her venomed mantle threw :-
The features, once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death ;
And former friends shrank fearfully

From her infectious breath.

VII.

’T was then, unwearied, day and night

I watched beside her bed, And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillowed her poor head. She lived !-she loved me for my care !

My grief was at an end; I was a lonely being once,

But now I have a friend!

EVENING TIME.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

Zach. xiv. 7.

At evening time let there be light:
Life's little day draws near its close;
Around me fall the shades of night,
The night of death, the grave's repose :
To crown my joys, to end my woes,
At evening time let there be light.

II.

At evening time let there be light:
Stormy and dark hath been my day;
Yet rose the morn divinely bright,
Dews, birds, and blossoms cheered the way:
O for one sweet, one parting ray!
At evening time let there be light.

III.

At evening time there shall be light ;
For God hath spoken ;-it must be :
Fear, doubt, and anguish take their flight,
His glory now is risen on me ;
Mine eyes shall His salvation see:
—'T is evening time, and there is light!

TO THE TURTLE-DOVE.

BY DERWENT CONWAY.

Deep in the wood, thy voice I list, and love
Thy soft complaining song,--thy tender cooing ;
O what a winning way thou hast of wooing!
Gentlest of all thy race - sweet Turtle-dove.
Thine is a note that doth not pass away
Like the light music of a summer's day!
The Merle may trill his richest song in vain,-
Scarce do we say, “ list! for he pipes again;" —
But thou! that low plaint oft and oft repeating
To the coy mate that needs so much entreating -
Fillest the woods with a discursive song
Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long,—
Hushing the voice of mirth, and staying folly-
And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy,

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