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But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!
And should


future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

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OH! my dear Father, I can ne'er forget
Nor, e'er remembering, cease to feel, the debt
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Thou gav'st me being, far more sweet than this,
Thou gav'st me that which makes my being bliss;
Thou didst to holy thoughts my bosom warm,
Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And taught’st, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of prayer, and thanks, and praise.


Who hushed


infant cares to rest?
Whọ lulled me on her tender breast,
And when I stirred more closely pressed ?

My Mother.
Who sweetly stilled my wailing cries?
Who prayed my dawning thoughts might rise
Above earth's fleeting vanities?

My Mother.
In early, youth, who soothed my woe?
Who mourned when sickness laid me low,
But whisper’d, “ Mercy deals the blow ?"

My Mother.

Who taught my simple heart the way
In feeble accents first to pray

- ? 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.

My Mother.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ;
There is no armour against fate :
Death lays his icy hands on kings :

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield ;
They tame but one another still.'

Early or late

They stoop to Fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

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,-
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.


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
Her hawthorn sweets and heathy blooms,
By upland bank and mossy lee
Shall many a heart remember thee.
But chief shall Fancy love to trace
Each mental charm, each moral grace ;
These, these shall live through many a year,
To Truth, to Love, to Virtue dear;
And pour a mild instructive strain,
When Wisdom lifts her voice in vain;
Shall Youth's unthinking heart assuage,
And smooth the brow of careful Age.

A FRAGMENT.-J. Bowdler, Jun.

CHILDREN of God, who, pacing slow,

Your pilgrim path pursue,
In strength and weakness, joy and woe,

To God's high calling true ;
Why move ye thus with lingering tread,

A doubtful, mournful band?
Why faintly hangs the drooping head,

Why fails the feeble hand?
Was the full orb that rose in light

To cheer your early way,
A treacherous meteor falsely bright,

That blazed and passed away?
Was the rich vale that proudly shone

Beneath the morning beam,
A soft illusion swiftly gone,

A fair and faithless dream?
Oh! weak to know a SAVIOUR's power,

To feel a Father's care:
A moment’s toil, a passing shower,
Is all the grief ye share.

The lord of light, though veiled awhile

He hide his noontide ray,
Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile

To gild the closing day;
And bursting through the dusky shroud

That dared his power invest,
Ride throned in light o'er every cloud

Triumphant to his rest.
And there, beneath His beam renewed,

That glorious vale shall shine,
So long by trembling hope pursued,

And now for ever thine.
Then, Christian, dry the falling tear,

The faithless doubt remove ;
Redeem'd at last from guilt and fear,

Oh! wake thy heart to love.
A SAVIOUR’s blood hath bought thy peace,

Thy Saviour God adore ;
He bade the throb of terror cease,

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 ?

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