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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.

THE HARPER.

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
Taps at your door, and in a feeble voice,

Choked with emotion, asks a simple crust,
Which human sympathy could not deny.
Ye little know the wrongs that heart hath borne;
The bitter anguish that hath rudely crushed
Its best affections. Nature is but weak;
And though it long may patiently endure,
May struggle hard to bear its toilsome lot,
Yet there are moments when the aching breast,
Robb'd of its dearest hopes and brightest joys,
Feels like itself a burden, and would fain
Breathe its last sigh, and sleep its last long sleep.
The golden sun had set, and the blue sky,
Yet beautiful with rich crimson tints,

That softly lingered on its azure breast,
Seemed wooing nature to a sweet repose.
Calm and serene the evening star looked forth,
As if to chant His praise who gave her birth;
All, all was lovely; 'twas the hallowed hour
When memory whispers of long-absent ones,
And bears us back to days and years gone by.
A weary man, whose form was bent with age,
Whose silver locks were floating on the breeze,
That seemed to pity as it passed him by,

Had turned, dejected, from the busy throng,
And with a look which might have moved a heart
Of adamant, was wending his lone way

Towards his humble cottage. All day long
Through crowded streets his wild harp he had borne,
And o'er and o'er its rustic airs had played,
To those who heeded not, till, sick at heart,
When the dim shadows of the twilight came,
He gathered up his scanty pittance, and
Covering his face with his shriveled hand,
He wept, not for himself, but for his child.
Within a drear and comfortless abode,
On a rude couch, a gentle girl reclined;
Her cheek was pale as marble, and her eye
Turned ever and anon, with restless glance,
Toward the open casement. Hark! 'tis he!
She faintly murmured, while a placid smile
O'erspread her pallid features. Yes; 'tis he;
My father! And the old man slowly bent
O'er that loved form, and pressed his lips to hers.
There was a change, a sad and fearful change,
Since he had left her at the early morn;

And he felt that the icy hand of death

Was at her heart. "Twas more than he could bear.
My child, he said, the staff of my old age,
How can I lose thee? Thou wert all to me;
And who will comfort me when thou art gone?
God will protect thee, (was the quick response,)
Father! she paused for breath, then suddenly,
As if a light had burst upon her soul,-
Father, ere from the world and thee I part,
There is a secret I would fain disclose.
Dost thou remember Rodolph? At that name

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

evergreen,

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,
And laid beneath the cold and silent tomb.
I felt 'twere wrong to leave thee thus alone.
Yet, Rodolph was unchanged; and when the storms

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.

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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,
Stripping the leaves from each quivering bough,
Strewing my pathway as onward I go.

The tree of the forest, the grass of the plain,
Submissively bow to my despotic reign ;
The flow'rets that bloom in the garden and heath,
All wither and droop at the touch of my breath.

I come not as spring with its gifts profuse,
Decking the earth with its gorgeous hues;
Scattering blossoms like glittering gems,
More precious than those of earth's diadems.

The hum of the insect, the song of the bird,
No more in the glades of the forest are heard;
Though silent I tread, yet my footprints are seen
In the withering herbage wherever I've been.

I come not as spring, with its long sunny hours,
Decking the earth with its verdure and flowers;
I come to forewarn the mortal who clings
To the perishing phantom of temporal things.

I come to admonish the children of clay,
To turn from a world of death and decay;
To seek for a portion more lasting and sure,

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,
Like angel whispers, echo'd from above,

It bade me haste from all that binds me here;
Sweet, as of plaintive music soft and low-
Sister, oh let me go!

They stood around my bed a shining band,
And on their heavenly pinions far away
They bore me swiftly to a radiant land—

To realms of endless bliss and cloudless day;

There flowers of fadeless beauty sweetly blow-
Sister, oh let me go!

Bright was the starry pathway that we trod,

Surpassing fair the scenes that met our eyes;
Countless the hosts before the throne of God,
In that fair world of peace beyond the skies;

And music filled the air in ceaseless flow-
Sister, oh let me go!

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!

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