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Seem full of promise:- and with softened tone,
At seasons checked by no ungrateful sigh,

The death of one sweet grandchild of his own
Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known.

She was, he said, a fair and lovely child
As ever parent could desire to see,
Or seeing, fondly love; of manners mild,
Affections gentle,—even in her glee,
Her very mirth from levity was free;

But her more common mood of mind was one
Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she

In ten brief years her little course had run,—
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none.

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad;
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell
How calmly happy, and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell:
Like to the waters of some crystal well,

In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen,
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene
Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.

But, though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile
Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth;
Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while
Betrayed of childish sympathies no dearth :

She loved the wild flowers scattered over earth,
Bright insects sporting in the light of day,
Blithe songsters giving joyous music birth
In groves impervious to the noontide ray ;—

All these she loved as much as those who seemed more gay.

Yet more she loved the word, the smile, she look,
Of those who reared her with religious care;
With fearful joy she conned that holy Book,
At whose unfolded page full many a prayer,
In which her weal immortal had its share,

Recurred to memory; for she had been trained,
Young as she was, her early cross to bear;

And taught to love, with fervency unfeigned,
The record of His life whose death salvation gained.

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,
On every charm and grace of this fair maid;
For in his narrative the story's end
Was long with fond prolixity delayed;
Though 'rightly fancy had its close portrayed
Before I heard it. Who but might have guessed
That one so ripe for heaven would early fade
In this brief state of trouble and unrest,
Yet only wither here to bloom in life more blest.

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf, Fading, and sinking towards its parent clay: She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day, His glories brightening at his journey's close; Yet with that chastened, soft and gentle ray, In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows, But on whose mellowed light our eyes with joy repose.

Her strength was failing, but it seemed to sink
So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear;

'T was like a rippling wave on ocean's brink,
Which breaks in dying music on the ear,
And placid beauty on the eye;-no tear,
Except of quiet joy, in hers was known;
Though some there were around her justly dear,
Her love for whom in every look was shown,
Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.

One summer morn they missed her :-she had been,
As usual, to the garden arbour brought,

After their morning meal; her placid mien
Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought;
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught;

And she was left amid that peaceful scene

A little space ;— but when she there was sought,
In her secluded oratory green,

Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen!

They found her in her chamber, by the bed
Whence she had risen, and on the bed-side chair,

Before her, was an open Bible spread;

Herself upon her knees;—with tender care
They stole on her devotions, when the air

Of her meek countenance the truth made known:
The child had died! died in the act of prayer!

And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,

To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown. Literary Souvenir.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LINES COMPOSED ON A DAY IN FEBRUARY.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

ALL nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing-
And Winter slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may-
For me ye bloom not!
Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,

And hope without an object cannot live.

HART'S WELL,

NEAR FARNSFIELD, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE; WITHIN THE ANCIENT BOUNDARIES OF SHERWOOD FOREST.

BY MARY HOWITT.

FOUNT of this lonely nook,
Hardly may heaven look

Through the green covert of thy leafy trees;

And in thy lucent wave,

Green ferns and mosses lave,

Dimpling thy stream as sways the passing breeze.

Beneath a classic sky

Thy hidden purity

To nymph or goddess had been consecrate;
King, warrior, bard divine,

Had mingled at thy shrine,

Bearing rich gifts, thee to propitiate.

Then, from thy twilight dim,
Pæan and votive hymn,

In the still moonlight had come pealing out;
Then odours sweet been shed,

From flower-gifts garlanded,

And solemn rite been here, and festive shout.

And marvel 't is thy spring,

So purely bubbling,

Never was sainted, ne'er had cross or sign;
Strange, that beside thy well

No holy hermit's cell,

Blessing thy waters, made this nook a shrine!

Fount of the forest! no

Thy waters' crystal flow

Ne'er had a legend—traveller never came,
Childhood, nor crippled age,

On wearying pilgrimage

From distant regions, guided by thy name.

As now, 'mong mosses green,

Dim in thy leafy screen,

Ages ago thy sylvan fount was flowing;

The squirrel on the tree,

The birds' blithe melody,

And drooping forms around thy margin growing.

Even then thy cool retreat
Lured the tired peasant's feet;

Here gentle creatures shunned the noonday beam;
And, from the hunter's dart,

Here fled the wounded hart,

And bathed his antlered forehead in thy stream.

Pure fount! there need not be

Proud rites' solemnity,

Priest, altar, hymn, nor legend, to recall
The soul to thought of Heaven,

'Tis by thy silence given,

Thy dimness, and thy waters' tinkling fall.

There is a spell of grace
Around this quiet place,

That lures the spirit to a better mood;

Whence? but that man's weak arm

Hath not dissolved the charm

Which Nature forms in her calm solitude.

Literary Magnet.

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