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LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THE SONG AT TWILIGHT.

WHEN evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound,
To Fancy's sportive car is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;-

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
O, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,

O, sister, sing the song once more,
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing

Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away.

When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,

And, sister, sing the song I love?

THE FEAR OF MADNESS.

THERE is a something which I dread;
It is a dark, a fearful thing;
It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death,-'tis more,-
It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still,
A tenant of its lowly bed;

But let not dark delirium steal

TO A STAR.

THOU brightly glittering star of even,
Thou gem upon the brow of heaven!
Oh! were this fluttering spirit free,
How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee!

How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine,

Like the pure lamp in virtue's shrine !

Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost.

There, beings pure as heaven's own air,
Their hopes, their joys, together share ;

While hovering angels touch the string,
And scraphs spread the sheltering wing.

There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights; There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul.

Thou little sparkling star of even,
Thou gem upon an azure heaven!
How swiftly will I soar to thee,
When this imprisoned soul is free!

THE PROPHECY.

LET me gaze awhile on that marble brow,
On that full, dark eye, on that check's warm glow;
Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.
That brow may beam in glory awhile;

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
That full, dark eye may brightly beam
In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow.

I know by that spirit so haughty and high,
I know by that brightly flashing eye,
That, maiden, there's that within thy breast,
Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest;
The strife of love, with pride shall wring
Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string;
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee,
Shall be drained in the dregs to agony-
Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye,
A dark, and a doubtful prophecy.

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse;
Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse.
I see the cloud and the tempest near;
The voice of the troubled tide I hear;
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief,
The rushing waves of a wretched life.
Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see,

And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee.
Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave!
Maiden, I've gazed on thy carly grave.

When I am cold and the hand of Death

Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath;
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip;
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep,
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high,
And think on my last sad prophecy.

TO MY MOTHER.

O THOU whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

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