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DAVID'S LAMENT OVER HIS CHILD.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

FAREWELL! Sweet pledge of guilty love,
And speed thy flight to realms of bliss,——
An angel, formed for worlds above,

Thou couldst not bear the storms of this!
Farewell, most loved and most deplored,
I bend me to my Father's will;

Though my heart's blood were gladly poured,
To hold thee here a captive still!

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Guilt hath but found its fitting meed,-
I, who the nuptial couch defiled,
And bade a guiltless husband bleed,
Must suffer in my guiltless child.
Now know I why my love hath twined
A bond so close around my heart,—
"T was, that by suffering I might find
The strength of that I tore apart.

I did but watch thine eye unclose
To mark its lustre wane away;
I did but hail thy cheek's young rose
To mourn it withering in decay.
Then, thoughts of struggling prayer had birth
Within my breast,—I prayed for thee;
But conscience chained my soul to earth,
And even my prayers were agony!

Yet well it were that thou shouldst die,
All young and beauteous as thou wert;

That stroke dissolved the only tie

That bound to guilt's brief joys my heart.

For, by the anguish thou hast felt,

And by the pangs I felt and feel,
The' obdurate soul was taught to melt,
Which lawless love had seemed to steel.

The prophet's voice pronounced thy doom,"I was mine to own the sentence just;

To watch thee sinking to the tomb,
Yet, bend submissive in the dust.
But who shall tell the grief that swelled
Within a father's breast, to know
His hand the deadly shaft impelled,
Which laid his spotless offspring low!

I sinned, and thou hast suffered.
Have not I suffered?

Thou!

When the dew

Of death was on thy gentle brow,
Was not mine cold with anguish too?
And, till I heard that all was o'er,

Was not a flame within my breast,
To which the pangs thy frame that tore
Had seemed a respite and a rest?

But now 'tis past:-I may not mourn,
For thou, beloved babe, art free;
And I may yet to thee return,

Though thou canst ne'er return to me.
Yes! we shall meet in realms more fair,
My sorrows healed, my sins forgiven,
And thy sweet smile awaits me there,
My welcome, at the gates of Heaven!

Literary Souvenir.

TO T. MOORE, ESQ. ON THE BIRTH OF HIS THIRD DAUGHTER.

BY THOMAS ATKINSON, ESQ.

I'm sorry, dear Moore, there's a damp on your joy,
Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,
When I say that your wife had a right to a boy,
For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

But since Fate the boon that you wished for refuses,
By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
She but meant while you wander abroad with the Muses,
Your wife shall be circled at home with the Graces!

THE MAGDALEN.

BY THE REV. T. DALE.

THE cold hand of death presses harshly upon me,
The last fearful conflict draws rapidly nigh;
But shame and disgrace lie more heavily on ine,
I wish not to live, while I tremble to die.
Yet deem not, though friendless-degraded-forsaken,
I write to upbraid thee in bitterness wild;
Reproaches are vain; and I seek but to waken
Thy latent remorse for my innocent child.

I once had a father, whose fond heart delighted
To cherish, indulgent, the child of his love ;—
Ah! how was that partial indulgence requited!

How weak did the thought of that tenderness prove!
Yet still, though with curses indignant he spurns me,
His heart may relent, ere my rest shall arrive;
For Hope whispers soft, 'mid the fever that burns me:
Where God stoops to pardon, there man must forgive.

I once had a mother-I mean not to wound thee,
Though conscience must startle appalled at her name;
Thou know'st with what virtue her confidence crowned thee,
How she sank in despair at the breath of my shame.
Alas! she is fled-yet, in darkest dishonour,

Her bosom was still firm and tender to me;
Her last feeble accents, when death was upon her,
Spoke peace to her daughter, and pardon to thee!

And soon shall I follow, where anguish and weeping
To silence are hushed in the rest of the tomb;
But the babe at my bosom unconsciously sleeping-

He shared not my guilt-must he share in my doom?

I charge thee in death, by each once-cherished token

Of love,—by the young days when innocence smiled;

By the woes thou hast wrought, - by the hearts thou hast broken;

By the God who shall judge thee-watch over my child! Literary Souvenir.

THE BRIDAL DIRGE.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

THE bride is dead! The bride is dead!
Cold and frail, and fair she lieth:
Wrapped is she in sullen lead;
And a flower is at her head;

And the breeze above her sigheth,
Thorough night and thorough day,
"Fled away!-Fled away!"

Once, but what can that avail,-
Once, she wore within her bosom,
Pity, which did never fail,
A hue that dashed the lily pale;

And upon her cheek a blossom,
Such as yet was never known :-
All is past and overthrown!

Mourn the sweetest bride is dead,

And her knight is sick with sorrow,
That her bloom is 'lapped in lead :'
Yet he hopeth, fancy-fed,

He may kiss his love to-morrow.
But the breezes—what say they?—
"Fled away!-Fled away!"

Literary Souvenir.

TO FANNY B., AGED THREE YEARS.

BY J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ.

Even so this happy creature of herself

Is all sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society.

WORDSWORTH.

As young and pretty as the bud
Of the strawberry in the wood;
As restless as the fawn that's there,
Playing like a thing of air,-

Chasing the wind, if there be any,-
Like these thou art, my little Fanny!

I look on thee, and in thy face,
The life is there of childish grace:
I see the silent thought that breaks
Into young smiles, as fancy wakes;
And newly-winged intelligence,
Trying its little flights from thence;
I see a strife 'twixt health and beauty,
Which shall the best achieve its duty;
A gentle strife, for both contend,
But both, like bees, their labours blend.
Thy cheek by health is rounded well,
By its hand invisible;

But sweet and rosy hues there are,
And you may trace young beauty there.
Health made thy gentle lips to be
So glad in their own company;
So lavish of the cherry's dies,

So like the leaf when autumn flies :-
But beauty claims thy young blue eyes,
And oh, thy little light, soft hair,

Parted on thy forehead fair,
Doth seem to take its own delight
In leaning smooth and looking bright.
Thy figure small, and tiny feet,
Dotting the carpet round us, greet

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