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But ah! by constant heed I know,
future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
TO MY FATHER.
OH! my dear Father, I can ne'er forget
IN MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MOTHER.
infant cares to rest?
Who taught my simple heart the way
- ? Who watched my slumbers, cheered my day?
My Mother, Who strove to teach my heart to glow With gratitude, and melt at woe? Each selfish feeling to forego ?
My Mother. Who lived in peace and died in faith, And blest me with her latest breath? Who grasped my hand and smiled in death?
My Mother. O!' shade of her I loved so dear! Thy fond remembrance still I bear In my sad heart. Thou livest there.
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.-Shirley.
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
Early or late
They stoop to Fate,
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds, Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds :
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,-
J. Bowdler, Jun. THINK not, because thy quiet day In silent goodness steals away ; Think not, because to me alone Thy deeds of cheerful love are known; That in the grave's dark chamber laid, With thee those gentle acts shall fade : From the low turf where virtue lies, Shall many a bloodless trophy rise, Whose everlasting bloom shall shame The laurelled conqueror's proudest-name. For there the hoary sire shall come, And lead his babes to kiss thy tomb; Whose manlier steps shall oft repair To bless a parent buried there. The youth, whose grateful thought reveres The hand that ruled his wayward years; The tender maid, whose throbbing breast Thy gentle wisdom soothed to rest; And he, who well thy virtues knew, When fortune failed, and friends were few : All who thy blameless course approved, Who felt thy goodness, or who loved, Shall croud around the honoured shrine, And weep, and wish an end like thine. And still, as wintry suns go down, When winds are loud, and tempests frown, And blazing hearths a welcome give; Thy name in many a tale shall live,
And still, as cheerful May resumes
A FRAGMENT.-J. Bowdler, Jun.
CHILDREN of God, who, pacing slow,
Your pilgrim path pursue,
To God's high calling true ;
A doubtful, mournful band?
Why fails the feeble hand?
To cheer your early way,
That blazed and passed away?
Beneath the morning beam,
A fair and faithless dream?
To feel a Father's care:
The lord of light, though veiled awhile
He hide his noontide ray,
To gild the closing day;
That dared his power invest,
Triumphant to his rest.
That glorious vale shall shine,
And now for ever thine.
The faithless doubt remove ;
Oh! wake thy heart to love.
Thy Saviour God adore ;
The pains of guilt he bore.
TO HIS MOTHER.-J. Bowdler, Jun.
Thou dearest object of my earliest love,
Whom Nature's voice first taught me to adore, Ere rising Reason's mandate could approve,
What heaven-taught instinct had inspired before; O what a race my weary feet have run,
Since last thy image met my wishful eye; Then waft me hence, thou quick revolving sun,
To that lov'd region of eternal joy. For where can man in heaven's high realms beside,
Heart-soothing peace and gentle pleasure find; If senseless apathy in stoic pride,
Constrain each nobler feeling of the mind ?