Again I join❜d the playful crowd No more I wept my brother's lot, The well-known morn I used to greet With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home, and raptures sweet, In ev'ry eye, but mine, were gleaming. But I, amidst that youthful band. Of beating hearts and beaming eyes, I lov'd my home, but trembled now Pensive I reach'd my father's gate, father's eye; G My little brothers round me press'd, The sabbath came; with mournful pace I gaz'd around with fearful eye, I reach'd the chancel; nought was chang'd: The pure white cloth above the shrine, The consecrated bread and wine, All was the same; I saw no trace One hurried glance I downward gave,- And years have past, and thou art now Forgotten in thy silent tomb! And cheerful is my mother's brow, My father's eye has lost its gloom! And years have past; and death has laid Another victim by thy side; With thee he roams an infant shade, But not more pure than thee, he died. Blest are ye both!-your ashes rest Beside the spot you lov'd the best; And that dear home which saw your birth, O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. But who can tell what blissful shore My boyish days are nearly gone, My breast is not unsullied now, And lov'd, and link'd my heart with others; But who with mine his bosom blends, As mine was blended with my When years of rapture glided by, brother's? The spring of life's unclouded weather, TO MRS. S.-By her Husband. FOR blooming health, for ease from pains, Ah! what had I abroad to do? With me the peaceful olive grew, And life's all healing baume Contentment, on her turtle wings, Brought joys to me unfelt by kings, And ev'ry blessing home. Of all thy sex, thou first, and best, Thou Virtue, by the Graces drest, My Margaretta come; From dissipation, doubts, and strife, By day, by night, thy ceaseless love, Oh! may the during pen of Heav'n Record the blessings it has giv'n, In Mem'ry's faithful tome; That life the grateful debt may pay, Each silent eve, each rising day, When safety brings me home. ON THE DEATH OF A POOR IDEOT. WHO, hapless helpless being, who Honour, and wealth, and learning's store And e'en the annals of the poor Live in their bard's immortal song. But a blank stone best honours thee, Whom sense, nor wealth, nor fame could find; Poorer than ought beside we see, A human form without a mind. A casket gemless! yet for thee While Memory paints the simple tale. Yes! it shall paint thy humble form |