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Himself in his chair, his hat in his hand,
His pipe and his wig on the floor;
The storm had passed off, the morning was clear, And the clock tick'd on as before.
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MESSRS. HALL AND ARTMAN. BY FRANCES J. CROSBY.
Oh, speak not harshly to the humble poor,
Nor chide the wanderer that with trembling hand
Choked with emotion, asks a simple crust,
That softly lingered on its azure breast,
Had turned, dejected, from the busy throng,
Towards his humble cottage. All day long
And he felt that the icy hand of death
Was at her heart. "Twas more than he could bear.
She slightly trembled, but her voice grew calm
As she proceeded: Near our happy cot, my childhood home, There was a shady nook, o'erhung with woodbines and the
And there at eve, with Rodolph by my side,
While the light zephyrs with their silken wings,
Fanned the sweet flowers that slept beneath our feet,
I listened to the gentle words he breathed.
He sought my hand-my heart had long been his;
But my mother from thine arms was torn,
Of adverse fortune drove us from our home,
To seek a shelter in a foreign clime,
I saw the tear-drop gather in his eye;
He clasped my hand convulsively in his,
And whispered, "Ella, thou shalt yet be mine." Three long and weary years since then have passed, And he perchance ere this hath wooed and won A lovelier maiden. Oh, how I have prayed And struggled to forget him, but in vain. She ceased. The old man with attentive ear Had listened to the long suspected cause Of that deep sorrow, which too well he knew Had nipp'd the rose-bud in its tender bloom, And doomed his idol to an early grave. Oh, what a sacrifice, he groaned aloud; God bless thee, Ella; I have ill repaid A love so holy and so pure as thine. "Twas then a traveler on his jaded steed Paused at that dwelling, and in breathless haste Flew up the narrow staircase; hope and fear Alternate whispering to his anxious heart. The old man's last words fell upon his ear: It is enough, he cried; thank heaven she lives! And springing forward, in his trembling arms He clasped that dying girl, now but the wreck Of what he once had deemed so beautiful. It was too late. One long and lingering gaze From those deep eyes of mild ethereal blue, And with her head pillowed upon his breast, And his dear name upon her quivering lip, Her gentle spirit passed from earth away, With scarce a sigh to tell that she had gone.
BY MISS MARGARET BELCHES,
Of the Indiana Institution for the Blind.*
I come, I come, o'er valley and hill,
Casting a shade o'er the sparkling rill,
The tree of the forest, the grass of the plain,
I come not as spring with its gifts profuse,
The hum of the insect, the song of the bird,
I come not as spring, with its long sunny hours,
I come to admonish the children of clay,
In the land of the blest, the just, and the pure.
*It may be interesting to the reader, to know that this authoress dictated her poems to a deaf and dumb sister, her usual amanuensis, by means of the manual alphabet.
Where the smile of the Lord is his people's delight; Where the soul is untouched by a canker or blight; Where the heart's best affections forever shall bloom, Beyond the dark valley of death and the tomb.
THE DYING SISTER.
BY MARGARET BELCHES.
Sister! I'm going home; a voice of love,
In dreams was gently murmured in my ear,
It bade me haste from all that binds me here;
They stood around my bed a shining band,
To realms of endless bliss and cloudless day;
There flowers of fadeless beauty sweetly blow-
Bright was the starry pathway that we trod,
Surpassing fair the scenes that met our eyes;
And music filled the air in ceaseless flow-
I saw them, too, the loved, the lost of earth,
The cherished ones who watched our infant years, Who smiled upon us in our hours of mirth,
Whose soothing words oft checked our rising tears; They smiled on me as none now smile belowSister, oh let me go!