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Thy tender smile, thy soothing voice,
Thy playful innocence, no more,
Thy fond, fond mother shall rejoice:
Thy little dreams of joy are o'er.
Of all the graces of thy mind,
No token wilt thou leave behind:
No trace of thee will soon remain,
But, in this breast a mother's pain ;
A mossy grave, an humble stone,
To tell thy years and name unknown.

MARIA;

OR,

THE MOTHER'S DIRGE.

DIRGE THE SECOND.

BY THE SAME.

How fragrant is the breath of Spring;
The lark and linnet, on the wing,
Their wild-wood carrols sweetly sing:

Oh ļist, how sweet, my Daughter !

The morning sky is ting'd with gold,
The landscape lovely to behold,
The groves their vivid buds unfold-

Awake, arise, my Daughter!

Art thou so fast in slumber bound?
And is thy chamber so profound ?
So barr'd from light and clos'd from sound

So cold thy bed, my Daughter!

. ; No sun thy narrow house can cheer: no summer,

there appear, No change of seasons marks the year, ,

No voice is heard, my Daughter !

No spring,

No play-mate can to thee repair;
Thy bed no lov'd companion share;
The worm alone has entrance there,

The silent worm, my Daughter!

Of late, I mark'd on Avon's side,
The bending lilly's silver pride
Reflected in the chrystal tide:

And thought on thee, my Daughter!

Alas, in one revolving hour
A chilling blast, an angry show'r,
Beat down the lovely ruin'd flow'r-

How like thy fate, my Daughter!

Thy spring is past-it swiftly fled-
For pain and sorrow, on thy head,
The vial of affliction shed,

And blighted thee, my Daughter !

But ah, the graces of thy mind,
Thy sense and gentleness, combin'd,
Thy looks of love, and voice so kind,

Can I forget, my Daughter ?

Since I must quit this fatal placé,
Oh could I once more view thy face,
And fold thee in a last embrace,

And press thy hand, my Daughter !
Or, could I ope thy lowly shrine,
And lay my hurning cheek to thine,
The world, I think, I could resign,

And sleep with thee, my Daughter !

MARIA;

OR,

THE MOTHER'S DIRGE.

DIRGE THE THIRD.

BY THE SAME.

'Twas at this hour, this heavy hour,
But yesterday 'twas at this hour,
The beams of noon serenely shining,
When, yielding to the fatal Power,

My sweetest Flower
Droop'd low her head, her life resigning.
I watch'd her eye--that beauteous eye,
I watch'd the sun-set of her eye,
'Till Death o'er-shadow'd ev'ry feature.
I caught the long-drawn, struggling sigh,

The plaintive cry,
And last deep moan of parting nature.

Oh lovely May ! sweet month of May,
'Twas in the merry month of May,
That Heav'n bestow'd my precious treasure;
I kiss'd her new-born tears away,

And bless’d the day,
With all a mother's pride and pleasure.

my

How bright my child, my dearest child !
While suckling thee, my dearest child,
The days of joy to joy succeeded !
When Hope upon my Angel smil'd,

The Winter wild
Pass'd howling o'er roof unheeded.
Three

years my breast, my flowing breast, Three years,

I

gave to thee my breast; The fountain of thy sweet nutrition : My bosom was thy halcyon nest,

Thy nightly rest,
The haven of thy lov'd fruition.
In Loda's bowers, her sunny bowers,
Light wreaths

wove in Loda's bowers,
For thee upon the turf reclining ;
Green buds refresh'd by genial showers,

With wild-wood flowers
The rose and hyacinth entwining.
But now, no more, ah never more,
Thy smile shall gladden me no more,
Thy pale remains from me they sever:
To-morrow.sweetest child, adieu !

From mortal view
The grave shall cover thee for ever.

PANTS, 1807.

TO A LADY.

SENT WITH HAMMOND'S LOVE ELEGIES.

I.

Ler costly presents win the fickle fair,

Let heaps of wealth the sordid bosom move ; To thee, my Marian, no such gifts I bear;

I have no wealth, no treasure--but my love.

II.

Yet take (all I can give these tender plaints
That breathe from Hammond's sweetly-mournful

tongue;
Such as, beyond what Fiction feebly paints,

Nature inspires, and her Tibullus sung.

III.

Oft shalt thou steal to read in secret here,

When from all else but love thy thoughts are free ; Oft shalt thou drop the sympathizing tear,

And while thou pityest Hammond, think of me,

IV.

Oft too' whilst I in sorrow waste my youth

A wretched exile, far from thee and bliss, Thou'lt kiss, perhaps, these pledges of my truth;

O Heav'n! that I could intercept that kiss!

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