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Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.

-

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered;—not a word he spake ;—
Just perishing for want of bread;

I

gave him all; he blest it, brake,

And ate, but gave me part again;

Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him where a fountain burst

Clear from the rock; his strength was gone; The heedless water mocked his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, Dipt, and returned it running o'er ;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side:

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I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed;
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honoured him 'midst shame and scorn:
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He asked, if I for him would die ;
The flesh was weak, my blood run chill,
But the free spirit cried, I will.'

Then in a moment to my view,
The stranger darted from disguise;

The tokens in his hand I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes:

He spake; and my poor name he named;
Of me thou hast not been ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial be:
Fear not, thou didst them unto me!'

Montgomery.

SONNET.

THE COTTAGER'S CHILD.

Oh Poverty is this a child of thine
On which I gaze in silent rapture now?

How soft the beauty of that sinless brow Round which the brightest flowing ringlets twine Their silver tendrils! and how deeply shine

The mirrored depths of those blue liquid eyes,
Whence streams of sweet expression laughing rise
To tempt the parent kiss! This form divine,-
This half-blown rose beneath thy roof of care,
Ere long must yield to every bitter blast

That howls around thy hearth; she too must share
Thy cup of tears, and, as she sorrows, cast
A tattered mantle round her shivering form,
To hide her bosom from the mountain storm.

Alastor.

THE POET'S PRAYER.

O could my spirit fly from this dark world of woe,
Methinks on wings of gladness it would go,
Rejoicing on its way, to meet its God
In yon pure, heavenly, sinless, blest abode.
O could it thus depart, ere years on years
Have brought with them a weight of sin and tears,
And bent this head in sorrow to the gloom
That hangs around an aged sinner's tomb :
How blest would that young glorious spirit be,
From all the ills of life thus-thus to flee,
And in the spring of life devote its youth
To praise the God of mercy, love, and truth.-
But, hush my soul! thou canst not flee away
From this cold world, nor leave this house of clay;

It is thy home-He wills it thy abode.

Bow down thy head, and say-Thy will, not mine, be done, O God.

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