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Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest
Lightly when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of hope, make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep, bright shadows from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour;
And sunless riches, from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds, a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!
Her lot is on you, to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain,
Meekly to bear with wrong, and cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds, and silvery light,
On through the dark days, fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first tenderness to heaven! MRS. HEMANS.
HER eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Then one deep love doth supersede
All subtle thought, all curious fears
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
WHEN one that holds communion with the skies
Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise,
So, when a ship, well-freighted with the stores
THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA.
There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
That check! that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea?
The rushing whistle chills her blood,
Is a mother who hath a child at sea!
She conjures up the fearful scene
Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear;