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TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

UNHAPPY child of indiscretion !

Poor slumberer on a breast forlorn, Pledge and reproof of past transgression,

Dear, though unwelcome to be born.

For thee, a suppliant wish addressing

To Heaven, thy mother fain would dare ; But conscious blushes stain the blessing,

And sighs suppress my

broken prayer.

But spite of these, my mind unshaken,

In parent pity turns to thee; Though long repented, ne'er forsaken,

Thy days shall loved and guarded be.

And lest the injurious world upbraid thee,

For mine or for thy father's ill,
A nameless mother oft shall aid thee,

A hand unseen protect thee still.

And though to rank and place a stranger,

Thy life an humble course must run, Soon shalt thou learn to fly the danger,

Which I, too late, have learned to shun.

Meantime, in the sequestered valleys,

Here may'st thou rest in safe content, For innocence may smile at malice,

And thou, O thou, art innocent!

Here too thy infant wants are given,

Shelter and rest, and purest air,
And milk as pure—but mercy, Heaven!

My tears have dropt, and mingled there!

ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III.

Bells toll for peasants, and we heed them not

But when the great, the good, the mighty die, Roused by the grandeur of their lofty lot,

We pause to listen, and reflecting sigh!

We cannot grieve alike for youth and age:

For thee, fair Scion of the royal tree,
We wept in anguish ; time could scarce assuage.

We wept- and oh! not only wept for thee,

But thee, the age-worn Monarch of these realms,

Thyself survivor of each dearest tie;
We mourn not with the sorrow that o'erwhelms,

But with the silent tear of memory.

Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden nigat,

But ran its course, and slowly verging, set; Preparing shades had long involved its light,

And stole the poignant anguish of regret,

To spare worse pangs than ever madr:ess proved,

The darkened mind in mercy first was given; That thou might'st never mourn the fondly loved,

Nor know them lost on earth, till met in heaven!

0! what a rapturous change, from dark to light,

From double darkness, of the soul and eye, For thee — whose days were quenched in deepest night!

To thee-'t was death to live - 't is life to die!

Those darkened eyes no more obstruct the day,

That mind no more spurns reason's blest control; Far from her wretched tenement of clay,

All eye — all reason -soars the happy soul !

As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,

And high communion with thy spirit hold?
Still sweetly whispering, ‘join our kindred band,

Come where the gates of Heaven for thee unfold.'

Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,

The loved the lost — to thy embraces press;
Come, where the Saviour who has died to save,

Lives — loves —and reigns eternally to bless!

THE PARTING SONG.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

I hear thee, O thou rustling stream ! thou 'rt from my native dell, Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound- - a murmur of fare

well! And fare thee well;—flow on, my stream ! flow on thou bright and

free, I do but dream that in thy, voice one tone laments for me. But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my

tears; The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have

known : The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!

I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof, the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through the

groves,
The hour that brings the sun from toil, the hour the mother loves !
The hour the mother loves ! - for me beloved it hath not been;
Yet ever in its pv rple smile, thou smilest a blessed scene,-

Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years

will

come, Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

Not as the dead !--no, not the dead! we speak of them-we

keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms

deep; We hallow even the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer steps the place they filled our band among! But I depart, like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!—the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, fare

well!

And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong;
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the

sky,
And but the dark deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak! within my breast whate'er hath seemed to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed for

thee! Brightly it would have gushed, but thou - my mother! thou hast

thrown Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine

own.

LINES WRITTEN ONA STARRY NIGHT.

So many

Ye distant, beautiful, and glowing stars,
That thus have twinkled 'neath the wings of night
countless

all radiant still,
But silent as the grave !-How many hearts,
Yearning, like mine, to know your holy birth,
Have questioned you in vain! ye shine, and shine,
But answer not a word. Why is it thus?
Why are your vast circumferences lessened
By intervening cold and lifeless space ?
In the wide ocean's waves that roll between,
The music of your motions too is lost ;
Or if some meditative holy ear
Catch the sweet cadence flowing from above,
It is so soft, so faint, so exquisite,
It rather vibrates through the listening soul
Than trembles on the ear'T is heavenly sweet
To see you gem the spacious firmament,
Like fiery brilliants set in ebony !
To gaze upon you, hung like beacons out
Upon the margin of another world,
Inviting us on high, is ecstasy !
But yet ye are so distant, and your round
And bright immenseness so diminutived,
That a light sparrow's wing, nay, a frail leaf,
While trembling to the passing breath of night,
If interposed, can shut your brightness out,
Eclipse you for a moment from our eyes !
A leaf eclipse the world! But oh! 't is thus
Even in our world itself: the veriest trash,
The hidden mischief of the secret earth,
Ancestry, title, blood, if hurled between
The gem of genius forming in the mine
And the sun's fostering ray, will intercept
The glorious, bright, and necessary fire,
And let the jewel perish in the womb
Of grand prolific Nature. But there are

years,

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