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• My journey has been long opprest,

And perils I have undergone ;

• But, MARY, lay thee down to rest,

* And sleep upon my clay cold breast,

• We soon again shall be but one.'

Then, tho she thought so strange the sound,

So hollow, dismal, the reply,

That she would sometimes look around,

And feared each noise, that stirred the ground,

With WILLIAM's wish she did comply.

So to his breast he did her fold,

And round her neck his arms entwine ;

Yet oft she said, as since she told,

• Sweet love, thy limbs are marble cold ;'

And he, 'Oh MARY, thou art mine.'

At length she sunk in deepest sleep,

And never woke, till break of day ;

Yet then she might both shake and weep,

And true, she felt some horrors creep,

For at her side no WILLIAM lay!

But MARY thought, that he might choose

To welcome all the rustics near ;

So dressed ; and still no time to lose,

Ran round to tell the curious news;

Yet scarce she dared, opprest by fear.

She said her WILLIAM had come back,

And asked, if they had marked his tread ;

The neighbors all looked blue and black,

And cried ; 'Ah no, alack, alack,'

For well they knew, that he was dead.

I will not wound your gentle soul,

To tell how MARY stood aghast ;

Her eyeballs seemed no more to roll,

She groaned ; and if you knew her dole,

You well might wish, it were her last.

The neighbors say, that she must die,

She neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps,

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BLEST is the meekened spirit given

To hush affliction's piercing throe ;

Soft, as the dews distilled from heaven,

Yet purer, than the printless snow.

stained how career in

And blest religion's light benign,

Whose charm arrests the embrio care,

Leads the young mind to mercy's shrine,

And wins the infant's grateful prayer.

To save from ruin's hurrying flame,

Or ravish from the whelming wave,

How bright the tributary fame!

How rich the meed, that waits the brave !

Nor shall the muse forget the power,

Whose secret gifts, to pity paid,

Protect the modest, opening flower,

And shelter in its fostering shade.

Sweet Charity, thy voice divine

Can every balm of care impart ;

The praise of rescued want is thine,

The incense of the feeling heart.

With thee, when hope's gay dreams have fled,

Shall memory whisper notes of peace ;

O'er death's dark courts a lustre shed,

And smooth the path to life's release.

For those, whose ears are never deaf

The cries of suffering woe to hear,

Whose hands dispense the wished relief,

Whose smiles illume the orphan's tear;

Not vain the promised blessings flow;

High heaven approves the sweet employ ;

Tho here in tears of grief they sow,

Yet shall they reap immortal joy.


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