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Will make her weep for sadness,

But straight she'll smile again.

And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain:
Sickness hath dimmed her eye,

And on her tender spirit lain,

And brought her near to die.

But like the flower

That droops at evening hour
And opens gaily in the morning;
Again her quick eye glows,
And health's fresh rose

Her soft cheek is adorning.

Hushed was her childish lay:

Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net; And when she broke away,

And shook her wings in the bright day,

Her recent capture she did quite forget.
What joy again to hear her blessed voice!
My heart, lie still! but in thy quietness rejoice!
Again, along the floor and on the stair,
Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet.
Again her little, simple, earnest prayer,
Hear her, at bed time, in low voice repeat.
Again, at table, and the fire beside,
Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest.
Again her heart and mind are open wide
To yield and to receive-bless and be blest,
Pliant and teachable, and oft revealing
Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling.
Oh sweet maturity !—the gentle mood
Raised to the intellectual and the good.
The bright, affectionate and happy child
The woman, pure, intelligent and mild!
It must be so: - they cannot waste on air
A mother's labor, and a mother's prayer.

THE WHIPPOOR WILL.

THE shades of eve are gathering slowly round,
And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove and hill,
Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound,
Calls thro' the deep'ning twilight- Whippoorwill.

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze;
Faintly the rushing brook that turned the mill :
Hush'd is the song of birds the hum of bees;-
The hour is all thine own, sad Whippoorwill.

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No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall:
No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill,
As if earth's echoes woke no other call,
Again and yet again, comes Whippoorwill.

Alas! enough before my heart was sad,

Sweet bird! thou mak'st it sadder, sadder still. Enough of mourning has my spirit had;

I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill.

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press,
And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill:
My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness,

Touched with that plaintive burthen Whippoorwill"

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home
Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill;
But, doomed far, far from all I love to roam-
Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill.

Loved ones! my children! ah they cannot hear

My voice that calls to them. An answer shrill,

A shrill, unconscious answer rises near,
Repeating, still repeating Whippoorwill.

-

Another name my lips would breathe; — but then
Such tender memories all my bosom fill:

Back to my sorrowing breast it sinks again!

Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill.

LINES.

They remembered their Creator in the days of their youth."

I SAW, and blessed them! From amid the crowd I blessed them in the silence of my heart: A troubled spirit fluttered there, and brought, With a sweet tumult, tears into my eyes.

Up to God's temple, three fair boys had come, And in the glow of young devotion stood, And a pure faith, to give themselves to Him. Their white robes flowed around them, and their step Was firm as if they knew they trod upon

The Rock of Ages. To the altar first,

Came one with brow upraised, and look intent,
And eyes made eloquent with serious joy.
Another bowed his youthful head; and but
That his clasped hands were tremulous with awe,
And on his cheek a flush would come and go,
He might have seemed, so motionless he stood,
A statue by some gifted sculptor wrought.
The third, as he had been my own fond boy,
Far, far
away, stirred all the mother's heart
Within me, for he seemed scarcely emerged
From infancy, and it was sweet to see

The innocent look of childhood blending with
Devotion's light: a dew-steeped violet

At early morn, touched with the sun's warm ray !
Children! once more I bless you: may your steps
In pastures green be found, and by the side
Of the still waters; as ye early seek,

So shall ye see the beauty of the Lord.

TO A YOUNG MOTHER.

BELINDA! The young blossom that doth lie
So lightly on thy bosom,- clasp it there;
For on her brow an empress doth not wear,
Nor in her jewelled zone, a gem more fair,
Or that doth deck her more becomingly.
Forget not then, that deep within thy flower
The germs lie hid of lovelier, holier things:-
Filial affection, that spontaneous springs;
High truth and maiden purity ; — the power
That comes of gentleness; — ay, and more,
Piety, nourished in the bosom's core;

These, if so cherished, shall thy blossom bear, And with the dews of heavenly love impearled, It shall adorn thee in another world.

SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH.

It is a melancholy pleasure to gather up the memorials of departed genius and worth; and we linger over the song of one who passed away in her bloom and brightness from earth, as though it were a holy strain, because the sweet lyrist was so near

"The world of peace, of joy, and perfect love."

Mrs. Smith, formerly Miss Hickman, was born June, 1811, and died February, 1832, in the 21st year of her age. Her maternal ancestors resided many years at Newton, near Boston; but Louisa was born at Detroit, while her grandfather, Major-general William Hull was governor of that territory. Mrs. Hickman returned to Newton when Louisa was in her infancy, and there devoted herself to the education of her two daughters. The uncommon quickness of talent exhibited by Louisa, soon attracted attention from her instructers. She had a most wonderful memory, and gathered knowledge without any apparent effort—yet was she ever among the most active in mental pursuits. And the ease with which she acquired information was not more remarkable than the modesty which accompanied her · superiority. She began to write when a mere child, and these juvenile productions were often so excellent, as to elicit great commendations from her family and their con

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