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One sabbath saw thee bend the knee
Rude footsteps trampled on the spot
While some few gentler bosoms wept
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor view'd thy dying agony ;. I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt, the terror, the distress,
My heart was spar'd that wretchedness.
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home, and raptures sweet,
In ev'ry eye, but mine, were gleaming. But I, amidst that youthful band
Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smil'd, nor spoke, at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstacies.
No smiling faces met me now;
Grief sat upon my mother's brow;
Forgotten in thy silent tomb! And cheerful is
mother's brow, My father's eye has lost its gloom !
And years have past, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side ;
But not more pure than thee, he died.
My breast is not unsullied now,
Cut their deep furrows on my brow
And lov'd and link'd my heart with others; But who with mine his bosom blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's ? When years of rapture glided by,
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
My brother, grew in love together.
ON THE DEATH OF A POOR IDEOT.
Mrs. Dixon. Wuo, hapless, helpless being, who
Shall strew a flower upon thy grave. Or who from mute oblivion's power
Thy disregarded name shall save ?
Honour, and wealth, and learning's store
The votive urn remembers long, And ev’n the annals of the
poor Live in their bard's immortal song. But a blank stone best honours thee,
Whom sense, nor wealth, nor fame could find; Poorer than aught beside we see,
A human form without a mind. A casket gemless ! yet for thee
Pity suspends the tender wail ; For Reason shall a moral see,
While Memory paints the simple tale. Yes! it shall paint thy humble form
Clad decent in its russet weed, Happy in harmless wand'ring's charm,
And pleased thy father's flock to feed. With vacant reckless smile she bore
Patient, the cruel scorner's jest, With unfix'd gaze could pass it o'er,
And turn it pointless from her breast.
The unform'd chaos of her mind,
But to parental instinct kind.
Clings Imitation's mimic power, And she was fond and proud to own
The school time's regulated hour. And o'er the mutilated page
Mutter'd the mimic lesson's tone, And e'er the scholar's task was said,
Brought ever and anon her own.
And drag reluctant to his place,
Each heart humane could freely love
A nature so estrang'd from wrong, That even infants would remove
Her from the passing trav'ller's tongue.
Where holy congregations bow,
And when they pray'd would bend her low.
Some latent worship still is there ;
The ideot's plea can never share.
Parental cares had rear'd alone,
Heaven took thee, spotless, to its own.
Thy sickness and thy death did cheer, And Reason, while she joys, approves
The instinct of a parent's tear. Poor guileless thing! forgot by men,
The heaving turf directs to thee; 'Tis all thou art to mortal ken,
But Faith beyond the tomb can see. For what a burst of mind shall glow
When, disencumber'd from this clod, Thou, who on earth couldst nothing know,
Shalt rise to comprehend thy Gop! Oh, could thy spirit teach us now,
Full many a truth the gay might learn,
Full many a scorner might discern.
What it would be to know no sin,