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In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb-the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears.
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak;
Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thy untun'd ear,
And gust it with a father's prayer.

But little reck'st thou, oh, my child!
Of travails on life's thorny wild 1
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tottering footstep which enclose;
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads between
The little all we here can find,

And the dark mystic sphere behind!

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,
Of clouds which gather round thy morn,
Of arts to lure thy soul astray,

Of snares that intersect thy way,

Of secret foes, of friends untrue,

Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo-
Little thou reck'st of this sad store-
Would thou might'st never reck them more!

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep;
The tenant of a frail abode,

Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd!
Beguiled by follies every day,

Sorrow must wash the faults away,

And thou may'st wake, perchance to prove The pang of unrequited love.

Unconscious babe, tho' on that brow
No half-fledged misery nestles now,
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day!

Oh! could a father's prayer repel

The eyes' sad grief, the bosom's swell;
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,

Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill,

A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.

Sleep on my child: the slumber brief,
Too soon shall melt away to grief,
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew that cheek:

Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,

And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,-ah, much too soon!

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all thine own,
Of many a pang, and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know.
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not, may not find a tongue,
But kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest,
May joy still animate thy breast;
Still 'midst thy least propitious days,
Shedding its rich inspiring rays;
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret pray'r,
And as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.

Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!

Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears!

Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,

And turn idolater to thee!

IRISH MELODY.

MOORE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at, no one dreameth:
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises,
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprizes.
Oh, my Nora Creina dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina!
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature plac'd it.

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That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But when its points are gleaming round us,
Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us.
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber love reposes,

Bed of peace, whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh, my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,
Wit, though bright,

Hath not the light

That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT.

J. MONTGOMERY.

I LOVED thee, daughter of my heart;
My Child, I loved thee dearly;
And though we only met to part,
-How sweetly! how severely!-
Nor life nor death can sever
My soul from thine for ever.

Thy days, my little one, were few;
An angel's morning visit,

That came and vanish'd with the dew;

'Twas here, 'tis gone, where is it? Yet didst thou leave behind thee

A clew for love to find thee.

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